Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc
by ayafangirl
Summary: A collection of HolmesxWatson oneshots! Ranging from comedy to drama, but always with romance. Ch 30: An intrusion in the middle of a kiss? What could be worse? It was caused by Mary, you say? Oh, bother.
1. Chapter 1 The Art of Seduction

_A/N: Hello, everyone, Aya here! I have like three notebooks filled with Holmes fanfiction ideas, one full-length multi-chap fic in mind, several one-shots I plan to post, and this here is my first dive into posting on the Holmes fandom. So please-have mercy XD Also, to those who don't know me from the anime-realm, I'm a slasher by nature, so these will all be (either lightly or blatantly) HolmesxWatson romance. Don't like, please don't waste your time here :)_

_These will be a collection of one-shots, both book- and movie-verse, mostly lighthearted and usually rated K+ to T  
__I'll give info for it in each chapter, so onward!_

Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc  
"After this, therefore because of this"

_**Title: The Art of Seduction  
Category: Movieverse  
Rating:K+  
Warnings:Nothing more than a little HolmesxWatson **_

Disclaimer: I own quite a bit of Holmes paraphernalia, but alas, my deity Sir Arthur Conan Doyle owns the original Holmes and Watson, and RDJ and Jude Law aren't mine, either.

The Art of Seduction

Now, Holmes liked to consider himself a reasonable man. Yes, he was aware that most people would scoff at his assuming so, and he was content with that. After all, his actions were rash, his personality abrasive, and his class non-existent. But reasonability, he liked to think, was measured not by one's social savvy, but in ability to plan one's actions before carrying them out. And he did. Someone as smart and capable as himself just didn't give a damn enough to do this when in public. Why take into consideration how someone's feelings might be hurt? If they truly valued his presence, they would look past his lack of respect in social conduct. Being charming…even being _human_ were not any of his concern, genius that he was. But indeed Sherlock Holmes was in _his _definition a reasonable man. He reasoned when he chose.

But these skills were failing him at the moment. And it was all because of the only person alive who was able to throw him for a loop at whim. He sniffed a bit and sat back farther in his chair, looking over newspaper clippings. He was conscientiously working to keep his eyes on his case work, but oh, how they did wander. Within moments, his mahogany orbs, totally observant, were watching how light refracted against a color as peculiar as the one he studied.

His fingers, dirty nails and scabbed knuckles against calloused dark flesh, moved uncomfortably over his pipe, tobacco staining them even darker. His deep brown eyes flitted back to watch them. Really now. What was a detective to do? He knew he was considered arrogant, but was this too much to assume?

All the evidence pointed to yes. But a sneaking suspicion said…no. Data versus instinct. Holmes seldom found the two things serving as antitheses to one another. He was just that great a detective. But…hm…

_God damn you, Watson._

A single thought moved through his mind over and over. That stupid doctor friend of his…

Again his brown eyes moved to stare at the doctor he was observing, who sat at the window reading. The setting sun's rays moved through the window to illuminate his features. His dark blue eyes were reflection the late-afternoon sun's yellow rays magnificently. It wasn't just the sun casting a lovely glow on him, though. Watson wasn't dressed the way he normally was, enhancing the beautiful air to his features.

It was nothing noticeable to the common on-looker. Gray dress pants, tailored so they were not to short on his long legs. They hung gently against the curve of his narrow hips. The color was aesthetically pleasing: the faintest hint of blue woven into the stone-colored fabric. It was not very often that the doctor didn't wear his suit jacket along with his matching pants; perhaps the absence of said jacket could be attributed to the heat in the room due to Holmes' inability to let the fire die down. (He liked to drop logs in and watch the flames consume them while he contemplated cases, and oftentimes found the room quite warm already with a fully loaded fireplace.) Instead, the doctor was only wearing his white button-up shirt which again seemed to be designed for the specific purpose of accentuating his frail figure. Finally, he wore a black tie, loosened just slightly with elegant designs on it in blue.

Very classy. Yet very simple. What no one else would pick up on save for London's greatest detective was that the degree at which the doctor's appearance was nicer than usual. It was just a bit fancier than usual…and there was no reason for it. Holmes knew for a fact that Mary was out of town visiting friends. It was just another Saturday afternoon with no patients or visitors expected. So why did he look so…nice?

Again the notion of being arrogant flitted through the dark-haired man's mind as he sought answers. He cleared his throat as if to speak, then didn't. It was not until after the silence had fallen again (save for the crackling of that damned fire) that Watson's deep blue eyes flitted up to observe Holmes.

"Something wrong?"

It occurred to the messy-haired man as he watched his friend's lips move that he had failed once again to keep his eyes to himself. He looked at the doctor, dark brown settling on fierce blue. That was the best part of the look Watson was sporting—the faint hint of blue in his clothing not only highlighted a body svelte-enough to grab onto and refuse to let go of, but they brought out the less-than subtle shade of sapphire in his eyes as the sunlight hit them, refracting against the orbs beautifully. They were not run-of-the-mill light blue which, piercing though the color may be, was prone to fading into green or gray depending on how the person who owned them dressed. No…that color was indeed pleasant but Watson's weren't like that at all. They were like the sea in the midst of an angry tempest, dark and unyielding to any other color. They were cool without being icy and bright and intense without twinkling too much. And Holmes could stare into them all day, god he loved them—

"Holmes?"

"Huh?"

Oh yes, he had been asked a question.

"Something wrong?" Watson repeated himself, book still in hand.

"Um no I was just—"

"Staring eerily," he finished with an arched eyebrow.

"Ah yes…" he kicked himself inwardly. "Forgive me. I was just looking at how…keen you appear today."

"Oh. Thank you." He shrugged and resumed reading.

Opening his pocket watch and listening to its therapeutic tick, the dark-haired man sighed. He could have asked just then. And answered so many questions…honestly, now, was he thinking too highly of himself in making such an assumption as…?

Time passed slowly and when the clock struck six, the doctor rose to feed Gladstone. Holmes' eyes moved as he followed his friend's movements and suddenly he could take it no longer. His hand grabbed the fabric of his friend's sleeve.

"Watson, may I ask you something?"

"Yes?" he stood, awaiting the detective's question as the messy-haired man felt himself suddenly hesitant. But then again…when did Holmes ever care about being tactful?

"Are you dressed like that to seduce me?"

There! He had asked it. The lighter-haired man blinked, perhaps surprised by the aberrancy of the question. Then, expression still level, he responded:

"Yes."

"Ah, charming." And he didn't feel at all hesitant to tug the taller man down onto his lap rather roughly. Watson didn't seem to mind either as he dipped his head down to capture the detective's lips against his own.

What a relief—so it hadn't been Holmes' imagination.

_I hope you liked! Plenty more to come. Please drop a review to let me know what you think-or what you'd like to see. Any suggestions for chapters are welcome! I hope to see you soon!_


	2. Chapter 2 Never Woke Up In Handcuffs

_A/N: I'm back! So happy that this has been recieved well; thank you so much for the encouraging reviews! The next installment is here. And I hope you all enjoy! _

**Title: I Never Woke Up in Handcuffs Before  
Category: Movieverse  
Rating: T  
Warnings: Slightly riske suggestions, but nothing much happens :P**

Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc  
"After this, therefore because of this"

Disclaimer: Would kill to have Holmes and Watson to slash to my heart's content. Sadly, they're Sir ACD and Guy Ritchie's T~T

I Never Woke Up in Handcuffs Before

It was later than usual when the doctor awoke. He could tell from how glaringly bright the sun was against his eyes. With a light groan, he turned his head into his pillow to try and fall back asleep.

The attempt was in vain. Everything hurt and his mouth was dry, with a strange taste still on his tongue. How unpleasant. And even worse, someone had noticed he was awake.

"Ah, good morning."

He flinched visibly as a hand ran over his cheek. "Yes…" he mumbled, "morning..."

"You looked gorgeous."

"Die."

"Haha,"

Watson gritted his teeth as Holmes leaned down to brush his lips over his forehead. Why? Why had he let last night happen?

…

_Watson sat on his bed, book in hand. It was a relaxing, quiet evening. The only thing bugging him in the back of his mind was that his best friend was not home. This was not entirely abnormal, but it still left an unsettled sensation within him._

_Just as his dark eyes drifted from his literature to the door and back again, the messy-haired, wild-eyed detective came in, bringing in the smell and cool air of snow._

"_Good evening," he chirped._

_The doctor allowed a smile to grace his lips before going back to reading. As he did so, inwardly content with the fact that his friend was home safe, he could hear the detective walk across the room to stand over him, and he could almost feel the smile on his face._

"_What can I do for you?" he queried without looking up._

"_I have a question for you, Watson."_

_With a snap, the book was shut and placed on the bedside table as the blue-eyed man opted to read rather than literature the mischievous glint in Holmes' eyes. "Uh-oh."_

_The dark-haired man knelt down onto the bed with slow, relaxed ease. Level with the doctor, he smiled even wider so the corners of his lips seemed to stretch from ear to ear. "I've thought up a wonderful experiment. And I'd like your help."_

_He glared. "Leave my dog alone, you mad scientist."_

"_Um, _our _dog." He corrected, tapping the doctor's lips teasingly. "And worry not; Gladstone is quite safe. I want _your help_ exclusively."_

"_Me…?"_

"_Yes, my dear Doctor Watson," he responded, intense brown eyes closes as he leaned into his friend to kiss him deeply, earning a surprised cry in response. However, the lighter-haired man soon gave into the kiss, arms slipping around Holmes' shoulders._

_The detective reached up, taking the doctor's wrists and pushing them back behind him._

_Rattle._

_Ka-chink._

_Click._

_Their heated kiss broke abruptly as Watson suddenly resisted, eyes narrowing venomously._

"_Holmes?"_

"_Yes?"_

"_Absolutely no. Not on my life, no way in Hell—"_

"_Sorry, old chap. But from this point on, I can't have my test subjects conversing with me. Now, you may feel inclined to gasp, moan, or scream a number of things the likes of which may include but are not limited to "Holmes,' 'Sherlock,' or 'oh god, just bring me, you sexy beast.' Any of these urges I can assure you are completely normal."_

_As Holmes spoke, he casually unbuttoned his own shirt, tossing onto the floor rather carelessly as the doctor gaped in incredulity and shock. "So please, lay back, relax, and enjoy the show. Or rather," he smirked. "The experiment."_

_And their lips were connected once again._

…

"You look mad, but you didn't seem at all angry last night."

"Drop dead."

The detective moved back onto the bed and wrapped an arm around his friend. The opportunity may never reveal itself again and although Watson hated to give into it, he knew there was nothing else to do.

"I never woke up in handcuffs before."

This signified to Holmes that he wasn't truly angry, and he smiled endearingly, fingering the key to the cuffs that he had slipped around the doctor's neck the previous night. "Really? I have. Naked."

With a chuckle, he turned into his friend's embrace for a quick kiss. He moved to wrap his arms around _his _Holmes…

The handcuffs rattled and forced back his shoulders, refusing to allow such movement.

"Ow! Bloody hell…"

"Ah…so glad I bought those," muttered the dark-haired man, falling asleep once again against Watson. "Very successful experiment."

_Ah so funny XD I hope you enjoyed. If so, let me know! If you don't let me know then too! Hope to hear from you :D_


	3. Chapter 3 Opposites Attract

_A/N: Wow chapter three already! I seriously have to slow down lest I run out of material XD That's still a long way down the line from happening fortunately. Thank you to all who reviewed so far! Each review is cuddled and loved._

_That being said...not too thrilled with this. I'll post it because it'd feel weird not to, but it's a bit boring. Just something to assure you more is coming, I suppose. So please enjoy :)_

_**Title: Opposites Attract  
Catergory: Movieverse  
Rating: K  
Warnigns: None**_

Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc  
"After this, therefore because of this"

Disclaimer: No...not mine *sniffs* Sir Arthur Conon Doyle and RDJ and Jude Law and Guy Ritchie ^^

Opposites Attract

It was difficult to understand where the mutualism arose from. They were absolutely different in most every aspect. No one could imagine them apart, nor could they see why the Great Detective Sherlock Holmes (as ran his full title) and his good doctor John H. Watson were best mates.

At every case, at any event the doctor's medical knowledge was required at, and most often together at their flat on evenings, the pair was united to the point of nearly being conjoined at the hip. But they as individuals were so…dissimilar.

Take Holmes. A supposed genius. He certainly didn't act like it. He was blunt to the point of being downright rude and cold to the point of being heartless; most of all he was un-classy to the point of being somewhat animalistic. Constantly calculating, the man was. He would often zone out by zoning in, things running through his mind the likes of which no one else could comprehend. Never assumptions, but always logical conclusions he drew from the vaguest details he took notice of, be them smells, sounds, or the slightest variations in the norm around him. All while it appeared that he was ignoring whatever company he was at the moment associating with.

Oh, yes. He was intelligent. But he was so odd. For one thing, his poor hygiene was a rather unpleasant idiosyncrasy. The detective seldom shaved, his face was always covered in stubble from his upper lip, down his chin and jawbone. His hair was quite long, but the random peaks, curls, and generally ruffled mess he kept it in kept it out of his face. He might have been incredibly handsome if he only cleaned himself up. But alas, lovely ladies, his clothes were rumpled and dirty, his fingernails were always black, and the smell of tobacco and chemicals always clung to him. Holmes was hardly a gentleman; he fought for fun and drank to ease his tensions. When he was excited about something, shutting him up became an impossible task although he seldom found anyone who cared to listen. Save for the doctor, society recoiled from Holmes.

Watson was, in nearly every aspect, his polar opposite.

Yes, he was incredibly smart, but his passion for medical science did not extend in any way to a genius level. He had the uncanny ability to soothe anyone's soul by phrasing things delicately, a talent that went well with his friend's tactlessness. He was prim and proper, polite and endlessly patient. His eyes were always focused and attentive, his hair short and brushed and face clean-shaven save for his well-kept moustache. His clothes were always clean and ironed with a crisp white collar and polished shoes. Although the doctor was gentlemanly, he was not without his faults.

He recoiled from tobacco and the bottle, but his pockets were usually empty due to an addiction to gambling, the likes of which could probably be attributed to his years of servitude as a surgeon and foot soldier in Afghanistan, resulting in a scared and arthritic shoulder, and badly damaged knee. Not to mention a resless and worrisome mind.

Despite this downfall, he was still a well-liked man. He was quiet and listened well though he rarely spoke. And though he generally disliked socializing, people were naturally drawn to his personality.

Like opposite poles of a magnet, Holmes and Watson were drawn to each other. The invisible pull that had brought them to be best friends kept them connected, ever-close…ever-content with the other's company.

No on ever said there was a reasonable explanation for it.

And evidently, Holmes thought it was one instance in which he hardly minded being unable to explain the mystery.

He lay half-awake one early morning, head buried in the crook of Watson's neck. The warmth of his friend's body was soothing and the gentle rise and fall of his steady breathing was comforting. It didn't matter that he couldn't solve the pull between himself and the doctor.

He was warm, he felt safe and happy. Curling closer into his friend, he smiled. Reacting unconsciously, Watson's hand tightened a bit on Holmes' arm.

This was Holmes' friendship and reason for living. Logic needn't apply._...Ah...*sweatdrops* watdja think? Seriously, reviews are still loved, and if you have any requests, let them be known. Message me anytime an idea pops into your head and you say "Hey, that seems like a HxW moment" (it happens to me daily XD) Thank you for reading!_


	4. Chapter 4 Tea for Two

_A/N: At this point, I actually begin to take pride in having written these after all, haha. I wanted to focus on description in this but NOTE: I am aware, as my grandma was raised by immigrants from England, that the way Holmes takes his tea is not necesarily common, possibly even that a proper Brit might prefer their tea black (that's how I take it, and I'm a registered American from outer space XD) If anyone dislikes the inaccuracy, I apologize. That being said, enjoy!_

_**Title: Tea for Two  
Category: Moive-verse (could very well be bookverse as well however)  
Rating: K  
Warings: Uh...tea haters beware...?**_

Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc  
"After this, therefore because of this"

Disclaimer: *thinks* you know...there was once a time when I got really creative with these. Screw it, SACD and RDJ and Jude Law and Guy Ritchie. Blah.

Tea for Two

The kettle over the fireplace begins to boil. The doctor removes it and pours hot water into the teapot waiting on the table. Steaming water mixes with tealeaves and the pleasant aroma of black tea slowly wafts from the center of the table through the room.

The both like their tea strong and so it is brewed that way; dark as sin and thick as the air on a humid summer's night. He leans forward momentarily to breathe in the smell; little whispers of evaporating steam reach up to caress his face before ceasing to exist altogether.

Once the tea is brewed enough, he pours it from the teapot and into two elegant cups, compliments of Mrs. Hudson. The cup of cream is taken, and also a spoon. He dips the spoon into the teacup, making small circles that result in the light tinking noise of silver on porcelain as the spoon sweeps the bottom of the cup and creates a small whirlpool of Ceylon. The dark amber liquid slowly thickens as he adds cream with utmost patience. The color transforms form stained pine to deep maple, then finally to caramel. Abruptly, the doctor stops adding cream; should any more be added to produce a hazelnut color, it will be ruined.

It looks and smells perfect, but he takes a spoon and holds it to his lips, just to be sure.

Perfect indeed.

He can tell by now from color alone how to make the ideal cup, but has seen the reaction to an unsatisfactory sip far too many times, and to far too many people to be so foolish as to hand it over to the picky connoisseur without taste-testing himself. He certainly does have his companion's tastes down to a science, and, satisfied with the tea, he places the cup on its saucer and slides it across the table to Sherlock Holmes.

London's greatest detective is half-hidden behind masses of newspapers, notes, and letters regarding case he is emerged in. His right hand comes forward to take the handle of the cup. The grimy hand, blackened fingernails and all, disappears behind a copy of _The London Post_. The doctor drops his gaze to attend to his own tea.

As he is adding one and a half spoonfuls of sugar (so as to offer the warm whisper of sweetness without muddling the strong taste of the fine tea), Holmes' voice calls across the small table.

"You're becoming quite good at this, Watson. At least I can trust you won't try and poison me, unlike…that _Nanny…_"

The emphasis that goes into making Mrs. Hudson's name sound pure evil tells Watson that Holmes is making progress in his case and is in light spirits, and he opens a small black book of poisons that the detective leant him to read up on (they are his own messy but obsessively accurate and avid notes), reading and taking a sip at the same time while nodding a response to his friend.

It's not much; Holmes would never understand how much thought and heart goes into simply brewing him a cup of tea, but Watson much prefers to keep it that way anyway. And without knowing it, Holmes gives him enough recognition for his labors, just as he always does, with his distant and often masked approval.

The game wouldn't be as entertaining as he was fully appreciated, anyway.

_I hope you enjoyed! Let me know what you think please, and let me know if you have any reccomendations or requests!_


	5. Chapter 5 The Eye of the Beholder

_A/N: Ooh, I've been excited to get this one up :) it's by far the longest yet (that's what she said! -_-"), and also one I'm rather fond of. It's the first book-verse too so let me give a brief description of their apprerances since they are prone to discrepancies from fandom to fandom._

__

Holmes: Tall (6 feet to be exact), prim and proper, short black hair that he slicks back, gray eyes and sharp features (that famous hooked nose!), a bit thin and lanky.  
Watson: Considerably smaller, golden blond hair that's slightly long in the front, wide blue eyes, features not particularly remarkable, slim without being as bony as Holmes

Lastly, forgive Holmes if he's a bit difficult to understand in this. I had lots of fun putting myself in his brilliant mind and then throwing him into distress, so his thoughts are a bit disjointed. Oh, actually one more thing: THANKS TO ALL WHO HAVE REVIEWED/FAVORITED SO FAR! It means a lot! :D now enjoy!

**Title: The Eye of the Beholder  
Category: Bookverse  
Rating: K+  
Warnings: Brooding Holmes XD**

Disclaimer: Characters are Sir Author Conon Doyle's, this is gratuitous manipulation of their personalities and friendship for which I should be punished.

The Eye of the Beholder

It was one thing he could not wrap his mind around no matter how hard he tried. No amount of shag, no countless hours of violin at day or at night, or endless days of blinking at the ceiling while he should be working would help. Even if he sat in his favorite chemistry lab, amongst hydrochloric acid, bubbling cubicles of calcium, and plethoras of blood samples to use, Sherlock Holmes could not understand it.

Perhaps the receptor neurons and sensory neurons in his brain were different than other people's. But whatever his problem, he wasn't able to comprehend. He sat on the settee, cross-legged and with a new purple robe on (to replace his old one, which had been badly burnt when ashes from his pipe had ignited some hydrogen gas and the article of clothing had been sacrificed to save two straight days of work from fire). The black-haired man fiddled absentmindedly with his violin bow and glared at his flat mate's dog one afternoon, feeling utterly lost.

Running a pale, slim index finger up its length, he frowned. His hands were bleached from acid in random spots, and his fingers were criss-crossed with random scars from dozens of cases ranging from mundane to life-threatening. His fingernails were dirty and clayey as well. There were small tears along the cuticles, probably desirous of moisturizer. Overall, his hands were ugly to look at.

In his mind's eye, he could see Watson's fingers intertwined with his own. His doctor's hands were always warm and soft to the touch, nails clean and evenly-cut.

This notion was slightly embarrassing to the private detective, and he ran a hand through his short black hair. It felt greasy; he hadn't bathed in over a day…_Ew…_Watson, he reflected, always looked spotless. His golden-blond hair was always silken and smelled faintly of the lemon soap he used. Holmes had never been a huge fan of citrus, but since meeting the doctor, he had found himself _craving _it.

Overall, there was no comparison. His eyes were a dull gray; Watson's were intense cobalt. His body was long and awkwardly lanky; Watson's was svelte and delicate. His facial features were harsh and obtrusive with a large nose and piercing gaze; the doctor's were softer and gentle with an easy smile and high cheekbones.

Sick of these thoughts, Holmes tossed his bow to the floor temperamentally and pulled a pillow over his face with a groan. Gladstone shot him a curious look from his spot near the fireplace, but was too content with the warmth emitted by the red embers to rise and investigate the bizarre behaviors of the famous Sherlock Holmes. There had been a depressing absence of cases lately, and stagnation was getting the better of his astute mind, curling his thoughts into a most unpleasant concoction of self-depreciation and doubt as to what Watson saw in him—if he saw much of anything at all.

Sure, beauty was in the eye of the beholder, but Holmes doubted even a dreamer like the blond had the imagination to find beauty in a man such as himself. As was common when there was little work to do, the dark-haired man lost track of time and the next thing he knew, the doctor's steps were on the staircase and he was no longer alone to his dark thoughts.

"Good afternoon, Holmes." As always, he was smiling and happy to be back with the detective, who lifted the pillow from his face and nodded a hello. "Someone's not in a good mood," he murmured sagely, sitting down beside his friend and giving him a faint and ambiguous smile that invited him to speak whenever he wanted.

"You know how my mind does rebel at stagnation, Watson," he responded blandly. "What can one do when that seems to be all that's left?"

"I disagree," he answered. "Thought the weather has not been so nice, the trees are budding and spring is clearly just around the corner. I think we are approaching better times after a long and dreary winter."

"You fail to understand it; it's a vicious cycle, you see. One unpleasant thought presents itself, and, I ask you: what else is there to do but dwell on it when there is nothing else to occupy the mind?"

It was a slightly rhetorical question, and the blond didn't respond, instead watching the gray-eyed man and awaiting further explanation as was his custom. "And those unpleasant thoughts—well, when someone like me is placed beside someone like you, one begins to realize his insignificance…and the mundane nature that highlights his true colors, which is so much more prevalent than those silly little idiosyncrasies that he once prided himself with—"

The more he spoke, the blunter he felt he was bound to become, but clamming up in front of the doctor was impossible. As he felt himself slipping over the edge, he wondered how his friend would react to hearing quite frankly, that Holmes felt there was not beauty in him with which the doctor could fall for.

However, as he glanced up by chance into the blond's eyes, he realized immediately that Watson was no longer listening to his monologue. "What are you staring at?" he asked, a bit perturbed by the way his friend's blue orbs were fixed on him.

"That robe you're wearing is new."

The detective blinked, taken aback. Watson hadn't just not been listening to him—he had downright _ignored _him. "Um…yes. I bought it the other day down on Hollowbrook road since the other one is singed. It looked comfortable."

"It looks really well on you," he said fondly, "the purple color looks lovely with your eyes, and I always found more regal colors to suit you best anyway." There was reverent affection in the latter part of the consideration.

The dark-haired man cast the blond a slightly confused look, feeling his cheeks flush slightly. "You think so?"

"Mm-hm," he beamed, touching his friend's cheek with feather-light tenderness. The detective's body responded on its own accord, face darkening further in color. Ocean blue orbs sparkled with bemusement at this. "It's charmingly classy. You look very handsome today."

"You observe things like eye color?" he asked, leaning into the hand on his face, the doctor's thumb absentmindedly stroking his cheekbone. "I mean to say—surely there are various other people with considerably more attractive eyes."

"I think not," he opined. "And certainly none I would rather look into at any given time of day."

Holmes considered the compliment, very much moved although he didn't show it outwardly. Perhaps Watson had been listening after all…or he was naturally in tune to the detective's feelings.

"Well then. You are perhaps, Watson, the most amiable person I have ever met."

The doctor laughed at this and pulled his hand away, studying his friend's expression. "That I doubt. Is the Great Detective Sherlock Holmes… _self-conscious_ about his looks?" his eyebrow arched and there was a teasing edge to his voice.

"I recommend you quit while you're ahead," came the curt reply as the detective rose. "You will see that I have a considerable amount of work to do."

"Which you have yet to begin as of late because…?"

As much as Holmes loved his friend, he was too smart for his own good and excellent at reading people. This would not be a problem if the dark-haired man was excluded from this quirk. But he was not. And oh, how Watson loved to tease.

"I was busy."

"Busy brooding?"

"Doctor," he snapped, "I cringe at the very word! I was simply lost in contemplation and fell into a deep haze of meta-cognizance; that is why I am yet to go through the letters awaiting me."

He turned from his friend and began to dig through a small forest's worth of papers, most of which were actually day-old. His slim fingers glided over thick and thin envelopes as he frowned deeply. How could he have been so stupid as to show such weakness in front of the blond? Embarrassment and agitation coursed through him and the silence that had fallen between them only made him feel more awkward. He could hear the blue-eyed man shift behind him, and suddenly there was a pair of arms slung loosely around his mid-back. He jumped but stood patiently as the doctor rested his cheek on his shoulder.

"Holmes?"

"Hm," he answered noncommittally.

"You do realize how highly I think of you, don't you? That you are the most brilliant and engrossing individual I ever had the honor and pleasure to get to know—and also that you're beautiful. More beautiful than anyone, though I hardly care for looks anyway."

That traitorous blush had returned. "Y-yes, Watson."

"So I don't ever want you worrying about such silly things. I can think of no one else I would rather stand beside, or love, for that matter. You are your own worst critic, even over such trifling matters, and beauty is in the eye—"

Holmes spun around, still within the embrace of the blond, and beamed down at him. "Of the beholder." He finished, leaning down to capture his best friend and lover's lips tenderly.

_Ah so fun ^^ That was one of my faves to write so far, so please let me know what you think. Drop me a line and a suggestion :) thank you for reading! No really, review now._


	6. Chapter 6 I Have to Go To Work!

_A/N: Sorry this has taken a while to get out, lots of stuff going on even though these are pre-typed up ^^ Anyway, thank you to all who have reviewed so far. It means a lot :D To balance the previous angst, let's have a little comedy here, eh?_

Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc  
"After this, therefore because of this"

**Title: I Have to Go to Work!  
Category: Movieverse  
Rating: K+  
Warnings: None**

(Inspired in part by _Holmes wants Watson_, by Cioccocremolato Wonka on Deviantart, the URL I could give to anyone who wants it though it's on like page 1 if you search Holmes and Watson XD)

Disclaimer: Still working on it. Still SACD and Guy Richie and RDJ and Jude-effing Law. XD

I Have to Go to Work!

"Look, Watson. Your lips say 'no,' but your eyes say 'forgive my rudeness, Holmes, and let me stay here with you today.'"

The detective lay sprawled on his tiger skin rug late on a Tuesday morning, pouting at his companion. Watson was using his mirror to comb his hair and, having completed the task, he pulled on his favorite hat, preparing to go to work. Holmes was feeling conversational, however, and wanted the doctor to stay with him for the day. Such arguments were more common than he cared to admit, and he almost always lost.

"No. They're saying 'no' too. You just misinterpret because you're stupid." He answered shortly, aware that he was quite booked for the day and could spare no time with silly discussions. He adjusted his suit jacket and looked, slightly annoyed, at the shorter man.

"Watson, it's a beautiful day out. I bet you fancy a stroll through the park. We can observe those vermin with wings that you enjoy so much." The messy-haired genius thought that perhaps bribing the proper doctor would convince him to stay for the day. It was at least worth a shot.

"Robins are _not _vermin with wings; they are birds. And no thank you, I have Mr. Franklin coming today and you remember how mad he was last time I rescheduled an appointment with him to help you on a case instead. I almost lost a client!"

"I fail to see your reason for displeasure. He's a hypochondriac who must learn his lesson."

"And you're a childish prick who must learn his."

"Your nerve is remarkable this morn, my dear fellow. What was in that breakfast Mrs. Hudson served you?"

The blue-eyed man only smirked at this, walking over to stand above Holmes and place one foot on his chest. "You will not bother me today. I'll be back before eight o'clock I hope. We can talk then, is that acceptable?"

"Hardly. Look, chap, between you and me, I've gotten word that the respectable attorney and talk of London, Mr. Anthony Burns, is having an affair. We could look into that—sounds like fun does it not?"

"Plenty of it too," he agreed, playfully kicking the detective in the chest and balancing with his cane. "So look into it and we'll discuss it over a late supper."

Yet another ploy failed. Holmes was desperate. "But—you don't have to go!" he cried with exasperation.

"Yes, actually I do," he corrected. "I must make it up to society for allowing you to run rampant each day."

A final rally against the loss of his Boswell: Holmes feigned deep and agitated insult, going limp against the rug. "…..Ouch. That was rather rude."

"Yes you're right, it was. Forgive me?" blue eyes looked uncertainly down at Holmes.

_I've got you now…_"No."

Watson simply smiled brightly, as though this answer were as good as any and there was nothing else he could do. "Alright, then. Off to work!"

"Wait—no! Damn!" the brown-eyed man slumped, dejected as the doctor flew out the door and pulled it closed gently behind him. The sound of his steps descending the stairs slowly faded to nothing.

Rising, Holmes rubbed his face and walked towards the window where Gladstone had assumed his usual position when Watson left: sitting by the window and gazing onto the street, awaiting signs of his master's return.

With some notion that there were probably much better solutions to his problems, but no motivation to pursue them, Holmes joined the dog to do the same thing.

_I do hope you enjoyed :D let me know what you think and drop any suggestions or ideas as well. And if you're going to click the Story Alert or Favorite button, you might as well leave a comment as well *hinthintwinkwink* Thank you for reading, I hope to see you next chapter!_


	7. Chapter 7 A Study in Spiders

_A/N: Sorry it's taken a while to update, but school started again (shudders) I'm basically taking all college classes too which is good but a lot of work. That being said, enjoy a light-hearted and random oneshot that came to mind out of nowhere a while back ^^ and let me know if there's anything you'd like to see in the future too!_

_**Title: A Study in Spiders  
Category: Bookverse; could be either  
Rating: K  
Warnings: None**_

Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc  
"After this, therefore because of this"

_Disclaimer: I don't own T^T nuff said. Sir ACD and RDJ and Jude Law_

A Study in Spiders

It was a partly cloudy day in London. The green leaves of late spring were just starting to blossom and cast shade on the streets of the bustling town, and their fresh scent mingled with the usual stench of horse manure, smog, and garbage. This all went unnoticed, however, as the windows of the sitting room in 221B Baker Street were closed, and the blinds half-drawn. The room smelled only of cold coffee and tobacco smoke.

Sitting in the midst of the room were three figures; Mrs. Martineau, who had come to discuss her husband's erratic behavior, Dr. Watson, who listened and kept his eyes on the third figure, and said third figure, none other than the Great Detective Sherlock Holmes.

At the beginning of her little interview, Mrs. Martineau had held the private detective's attention, and he had listened, pipe in mouth, fingertips pressed together, and eyes half-lidded as she gave him the information he sought to solve the case, should he decide to do so.

However, nearly a quarter of an hour later, Watson as aware that Holmes had stopped paying attention to their guest as she spoke. As she was preparing to leave, he was able to reiterate important facts verbatim, and even asked a few obscure questions that assured the doctor he found the case to have some singular points, and would no doubt take it. What disturbed the quiet doctor as the woman left was how pathetically simple was Holmes' distraction…

"Look at this spider, Watson."

"Holmes…really?"

"It's spinning a web."

Upon Mrs. Martineau's exit, the detective had risen to stand by the fireplace, where the doctor had observed his eyes drift during the short interview. Sure enough, there was a small spider occupying the right corner of the brickwork.

Watson had to laugh. "You think spiders are interesting?"

"Oh, they are brilliant creatures, my dear fellow, designing intricate webs in which to catch their prey. Such a singular technique."

"And yet not unlike the way your deductive skills work: precise and never-failing, eh?"

The private detective looked at his friend, appreciating the slightly uncharacteristic and poetic metaphor for his work. Surely it was quite exaggerated, he found. Yet his ego rather enjoyed that. "I do like your analogies."

A smile graced his lips. "And did you know that spider's threads are said to be as strong as steel?"

"Truly?" Holmes' eyes returned to the tiny creature. "How remarkable!"

The blue-eyed man felt his heart swell a bit at that. Holmes' tendency to know everything oftentimes left him feeling foolish if not like a complete simpleton, and the detective also tended to put off the doctor's joy in minimalism. Finding something that could be of new information to his friend was as exciting as it was rewarding.

"It truly is just like you," he decided, warmth spreading in his chest and (to his surprise), a bit in his cheeks as well as he looked at his entranced friend. "Once you've strung your facts together, the answer is concrete."

"It's flattering to see that you've been keeping such an observant eye on my work."

They both turned from the corner of the room to look over the table instead, which was littered with letters and notes for Holmes to read as he chose. "I wonder if I would be able to observe even more if I had eight eyes," he mused.

"I wouldn't bet on it," Watson responded. "Spiders' eyes aren't as complex as human beings'. Even though they have four pairs, they can only really distinguish dark from light."

This comment brought on a smirk from the detective, who looked at his friend, finding humor once more in knowing more than the doctor. "Now that I already knew," he informed.

The blue-eyed man feigned insult. "Is that so? Fine then, I shall no longer share with you my extensive knowledgebase of arachnids."

They both began to laugh as the detective set down his pipe, eyes bright. Cases were his life, but it seemed that having a best friend to speak to—even on the most aberrant of topics, added a much-needed spice to life—one that he found himself quite enjoying.

_A/N: So, hope you liked :D Now seriously, guys, I'm starting to run out of ideas. I used to get like three a day, now I'm getting like one every few days. You guys should start giving me suggestions ;) Besides, my bestie isn't such a Holmes fanatic and I'm a little shell-shocked and bereaved...anyone who wants to comfort me with Holmesiness is more than welcome to!_

_Review and let me know what you think/would like to see! (A few sneakers are still favoriting/story altering without reviewing...meanies :P)_


	8. Chapter 8 Sweet Nothings, Like Citrus

_A/N: Oh, how much I hate school. Well, that's hyperbolic, but I'd rather sit at home and type fanfiction all day long than be there XD Here we are with the latest edition of Holmes goodness, again, light on romance but funny nonetheless. It's a personal favorite of mine since Bookverse Holmes captivates me. Please enjoy!_

_**Title: Sweet Nothings, Like Citrus  
Category: Sheer bookverse goodness!  
Rating: K+  
Warnings: None**_

Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc  
"After this, therefore because of this"

Sweet Nothings, Like Citrus

Disclaimer: No, I don't own Sherlock Holmes. Yes, that makes me very, very sad.

He had expressed it many times himself; Sherlock Holmes was one to disregard information he deemed useless. Why fill the brain with superfluous things like modern artists or government philosophy, and limit the room in his head for knowledge he needed to learn about human behavior and chemistry, which would ultimately aide his detective work in the end?

He could vaguely recall telling this to Watson not long after they had first become friends, and the time they had pursued their "Study in Scarlet," as the doctor later titled the work. Despite the veteran and physician's obvious interest in his profession, he had ironically disregarded this bit of Holmes' style.

It was curious, the matter of what held the two together. Holmes was focused in on life completely, hearing, seeing, _knowing _everything. Watson _thought _he focused in on life completely, loving, hating, and fanaticizing everything that occurred around him. In a way, they balanced each other out; Holmes could memorize every detail and fact on a case while Watson's romanticism and humanism kept the detective in line.

But…Holmes had to wonder, was it really good to associate so closely with such a dreamer? He could recall one instance, in which the two had sat in their flat on Baker Street, sharing some fresh tangerines that the private detective had received as a gift for helping a young Chinese merchant. Holmes' musings on the benefits of vitamin C, scurvy that could be observed in sailors with a deficiency for its immunity-boosting properties, and how this had helped him narrow his scope in many a case, had been interrupted by soft smile of his Boswell, mentioning how he liked citrus so much because of how nicely it made one's fingers smell after peeling the fruit. Holmes had simply had to laugh at the time, but as he sat now, pipe in mouth and violin in hand, he wondered if his bond with Watson could possibly by _detrimental_ to his work.

His teeth came down on his black clay pipe until has jaw ached dully. _What if_, he thought, gray eyes dark, clouded, _what if Watson's classification of things by positive and negative connotation affect my ability to be unbiased?_ The detective could throw his hands into the air in agitation at the mere thought. An unpleasant screech echoed across the room as his hands pulled the bow over his violin strings.

A terrible scene was flashing before his mind's eye. A case, a mystery—murder! He had to solve it but a problem would pop up—tangerines! They would be around the scene of the crime. And Holmes, foolish, distracted, corrupted Holmes, would think of Watson's like of the tangerines and the citrus' pleasant aroma. Thinking of how his friend smiled, and the tenderness that the smile brought to his own heart, he would unconsciously become happy and fail to think rationally. Like his friend's, his newly-biased mind would begin to twist facts to suit theories rather than theories to suit facts. How insensible!

"Gah!"

He didn't even realize that he had let out an audible cry until Watson snapped up from a book he had been immersed in to look at the detective curiously.

"Are you alright?" he questioned, dark blue eyes boring into his own.

"Oh, God, Watson. I fear for the worst!" he exclaimed, sinking lower into his chair. He had no intentions to continue explaining himself, and the blond caught onto this easily, and turned back to his literature with a mere shrug at the detective's eccentricity.

Holmes, however, could not settle himself as peaceably as the doctor. He greatly valued his flat mate for companionship…but what a blow friendship might deliver to his talents—and for that sake, the safety of London! The dark-haired detective sighed and began to play the doctor's favorite song on his violin. He would have to keep his guard up, that was all.

Insensibility was highly contagious.

_He's gone so absolutely soft for the doctor X3 In the books anyway, I feel that this is their relationship in a way. I hope this translated well; when I read it I read it slowly and deliberately, hearing Holmes' voice as his thoughts wander. I hope that works when reading. Anyway, let me know what you think, I'd love to hear from you! Just click that little review button ;)_

_Thanks for reading!_


	9. Chapter 9 That Mister Holmes

_A/N: Wow. All I can say is wow. I'm so completely sorry that I haven't updated in a long time, but holy crap senior year is kicking the crap out of me XD Between college stuff and AP classes and trying to maintain a class rank of 3, I'm pretty swamped. But my love for HXW has not extinguished! This is yet another funny one, but afterwards these will start taking a turn for the slashier :D_

**Title: That Mr. Holmes  
Category: Moiveverse  
Rating:K+  
Warnings: None :)**

Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc  
"After this, therefore because of this"**  
**

That Mr. Holmes

Disclaimer: Don't own. Just wish with all my heart that I did. Sir ACD!

(Mrs. Hudson's POV)

It truly is a beautiful day to be alive. I awake to sunlight—can you imagine, sunlight after the rain London's been having?—streaming in through my curtains. I rise, feeling that I've slept better than I have in many weeks, and pull them back so early-morning yellow brightens the entire room. Pulling on my robe, I hurry through the morning's usual quick toilet to fix up my makeup and hair, and dress.

Once that has been completed, I give a quick nod to the picture of my late husband, my beloved Charles, which sits in an ethereal beam of morning light. I can just tell that he's watching over this house today. With that, I go to the kitchen. Once there, I begin to heat water for tea and consider what I shall make the boys for their breakfast. I suppose the usual will suffice; Mr. Holmes is due to be up in a little over an hour, and the doctor in about two and a half hours.

Well, it's a beautiful day, so why not make them something a bit nicer than usual? I prepare the oven to make something, walking to the window as it heats up. Now, as much as I may complain to the boys about living here on Baker Street, it really is lovely. Sure, you get the rabble of most of London right outside on the street, but that is not what I choose to focus on.

You see, back when Charles first bought the house, we being a newly married couple and I with child, he had made sure to plant a little garden right outside the kitchen window so that I may always enjoy the beauty of Nature that I grew up with in the country before moving where his profession took us.

Even now, I use that small garden to reap herbs in the warmer weather. It's not much, but Mr. Holmes has been able to identify a few of them in my cooking, which is quite flattering. The ten-minute discussions on the use of the herbs to create or mask the smell and flavor of poisons is usually less flattering, but I appreciate how the doctor has the good grace to acknowledge both my use of plants and Mr. Holmes' knowledgebase with equal polite interest. I swear, his sanity sometimes is the only thing preventing me from sending that private detective flying out the door.

But all those anecdotes aside, it really is a beautiful day for the garden. I'm surprised to see that the Johnny Jump-Ups have begun to blossom already…they must be excited for the sun. The Thyme and Rosemary, as predicted, are not prepared to be harvested yet but I won't get ahead of myself talking about such things.

Once the oven is ready, I pour the mix for potato flour muffins that I've been working on and head to the cellar to select some blackberry jam for the boys. I consider whether to serve cold ham or scrambled eggs with the muffins, and with the fleeting image of the ravenous detective in my mind (the poor dear sometimes goes for days without accepting any food, you see), I decide on both. The poor devil can eat as much as he likes, and the doctor, through a lifetime dedication to the study of health and nutrition, can pick and choose what he eats, though, as the situation currently stands, it will probably not be much. He's unfortunately well-tuned to Mr. Holmes' own emotions, and when the detective is involved with a case (or several) as he currently is, the doctor ceases to take an interest in anything, save evidence and investigation.

Well I'll do all I can for them. I prepare the table they eat at together, placing down freshly-polished silver wear and new placemats that my dear late sister embroidered for me herself as a wedding gift. The dark, sweet jam is placed next to the empty teapot, and I pour myself a cup of strong black tea straight out of the kettle to enjoy my time before Mr. Holmes rises.

There is a young chickadee singing outside the kitchen window, and basking in the warm glow of spring sunlight, I sip thoughtfully, lost in my own heavenly daze. This house, this house that Charles and I purchased together, and that I have rented out ever since, is such a source of warmth and peace. This house, currently occupied by myself, two bosom buddies, and a bulldog, which knits us together as a family.

Oh, I do so love this house, as I love these quiet mornings—

_Bam!_

_Crash!_

"Ahh! Watsooon!"

Woof woof woof!

I nearly jump out of my seat at the sound of an explosion upstairs, and someone scurrying about, no doubt trying to put out a fire.

_It could only be that Mr. Holmes._

He's frantically calling for Dr. Watson to come assist him, and Gladstone, the doctor's dog, is in a frenzy.

In a few moments, I can smell smoke. Mr. Holmes is still screaming like a madman, and I consider myself a fool to think that I actually believed he had slept through the night. By now, Dr. Watson's voice is added to the upstairs cacophony, chiding Mr. Holmes' chemical experiments at the worst time of day and causing the detective to retort bitterly (and rather loudly).

I rise with a rather rude groan of my own just as Gladstone slips and slides down the stairs, rushing to me to bark a bit more, as though to alert me that the detective has been causing mischief again…of which I am well aware.

So much for quiet, peaceful mornings. Surely such a thing cannot exist in a flat housing the hair-graying, fire-starting maniac that is that Mr. Holmes!

"Naaannyyyyyyyy!"

It's Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, together. No doubt they are both in need of assistance, a stern scolding, and some freshly-made breakfast, in that order. Throwing open the detective's door and entering, I find them both, faces black, eyes filled with guilt, and standing in front of (as if to hide) a burned writing desk, with charred remains of some notes and papers on it.

"Yes boys, I'm here." I sigh, not quite able to believe the insanity I allow to reign under my roof. "So, who shall explain today?"

And thus _truly_ begins my morning.

_A/N: So, did you like? I hope to update again soon! Let me know what you think ;D Thanks for reading!_


	10. Chapter 10 Intensified

_A/N: *immerges from piles of books, college applications, and essays* Hark, faithful readers; I yet live! Forgive me for that ridiculously long and unprecedented haitus of sorts. I wanted to update **obviously **but senior year has been crazy, I have a class rank to maintain and college classes to lead, and so I simply was unable to do so. In the meantime, Sherlock has finally aired on American cable so that I have been watching it and fall in love with BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH-Jesus H. Christ if the man isn't the epitome of sexiness and Holmesiness w but I rant._

_Case and point: forgive me, I'm completely out of sorts. nonetheless, I offer you some actually slashy goodness, although I accidentally switched the order of this chapter with the next. I'm sure you'll forgive me :D Happy reading. I'm back for now and rapid for some HolmesxWatson! (Or SherlockxJohn...that's ridiculously perfect too w)_

**Title: Intensified  
Category: Movieverse  
Rating: T  
Warnings: Heavy suggestions of adult activities. Not up to it, don't read it ;)**

Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc  
"After this, therefore because of this"

Disclaimer: Not mine! Guy Richie, Sir ACD, Robert Downey Jr and Jude Law everybody!

Intensified

It really wasn't much. The results were completely unintentional…although not wholly unappreciated. But that being said, the original motive was totally innocent and in no way meant to turn into such a…well…

The point being: the first time Sherlock Holmes kissed his Dr. Watson, it was really nothing. Or it wasn't meant to be anything anyway.

They had been seeing each other less and less on that night that it occurred. Since Holmes' epic defeat of Lord Blackwood, he had gained quite a bit of notoriety (not to say that the Yard didn't miraculously attain most of his credit, to Holmes' nonchalant shrug and Watson's chagrin), and he had been given a plethora of cases to occupy his busy mind. This was very-much appreciated, except that he was hardly able to bother Watson as he had hoped to since the doctor moved out of Baker Street.

This hardly concerned Watson, who had a steady flow of business from his new office located conveniently between Baker Street and Cavendish Place. The good business was both a blessing and a curse, because he seldom had time to visit Holmes as he would have liked to; as he had promised to. Needless to say, when they did manage to sneak quick visits in, it was slightly awkward, but just seeing the other man flourishing and busy with the work he truly loved was enough for each of them.

But Holmes was very difficult to please. He had once proclaimed to Watson that he himself was lazy, and it was no lie. He was content to live with his Stradivarius, his pipe, and cases. Frankly, he desired much more out of life but he simply didn't feel like pursuing it himself. He could have had Watson, he reflected thoughtfully one day, but his indecision on the matter, and his lazy attitude had prevented him from claiming the blue-eyed man, though it would have been an easy matter if he had really attempted to secure him.

Ironically, that very doctor showed up that night, explaining that his last client had left his office earlier than expected, and since Mary was out at a theatre with friends, he would love to sit and chat with him for a few hours.

Some wine, some cigarettes, and many anecdotes had them both laughing merrily that night, and Holmes realized that it was the first time in a long time that he and Watson were spending time together the way they once had: with an unguardedly affectionate atmosphere about them.

And, happy to see part of the doctor that he had assumed he had lost long ago, he rose and stood before him, smiling. Watson's laughter cut off abruptly, to Holmes' regret. He was stunning when he smiled; brilliant sapphire eyes flashing with any light that happened to be in the room, and apples of his cheeks rounding as his mouth curved up beautifully. Now, his expression leveled.

"Yes, Holmes?"

"Nothing, Watson," he answered coolly, shrugging as he took a seat on the arm of the chair his companion sat in, keeping a keen look on him the entire time. "I'm just reflecting on my own foolishness, actually."

Curiously, the doctor tilted his head to the side, resting it against Holmes' arm and looking up at him. This truly was, Holmes noted, a friendly side that Watson seldom showed, even to him. "Foolishness? You? Where is that famous ego of yours? Or have you a fever—"

The brown-eyed man cut him off, placing a hand on his chin and tracing the line of his jawbone. Even this closeness caused no perturbation whatsoever in the blue-eyed man; they were demonstrative of the tenderness towards each other, yet in the years they had spent together, there remained a naïve and even chaste inability to see how suggestive such actions were. Suddenly Holmes felt he was seeing something inappropriate, something he shouldn't. The past and the present exploded before his mahogany eyes, the depth of those subtle shows of friendship: all the times they rested their heads on the other's shoulder, or squeezed the other's hand when he was stressed…_Oh, god…_

It was a strange feeling; a full-grown man suddenly realizing just what he had been a part of. His throat felt too tight; it was hard to breathe. There sat Watson below him, patient as the detective's fingers continued to trace his jawbone, cheekbones, his neck. Did he realize? Did he see just _how. damn. close. _they had been for so long, neither taking the hint?

Holmes' thoughts came back, full-circle, and he remembered why he had come so close to his _married_ doctor in the first place.

"I don't have a fever, my dear Mother Hen," he responded to a question that seemed to have been asked a week ago. In fact it had been less than thirty seconds. "I just…have the impulsive urge to do something I should have done long ago."

And with that, he leaned down and kissed Watson.

Again, it seemed a week went by that their lips were connected. In fact it was less than ten seconds.

But it was not the doctor who pulled away; it was Holmes.

"F-forgive me!" he beseeched instantly, clasping a hand over his mouth and looking at the blue-eyed man, who blinked and very slowly reached up to touch his lips.

"You realized it, then?" he asked dully.

"Realized?"

"How compatible we are—and how we are too close…possibly for our own safety." His tone was matter-of-fact, and it could have stirred some indignant spite in Holmes were it not for the faint blush that accompanied his words.

"Yes, I've realized." He replied flatly.

The clock ticked on the mantelpiece above the dying fire, a constant metronome that anchored both men to the room as they stared at each other, as if for the first time in their lives. Eventually, the fire did in fact die down to nothing more than red embers, a lamp on the other side of the room their only light.

When Holmes spoke again, he had shed an innocence that he had unwittingly toted around his entire adult life. "Watson…may I kiss you again?"

Something in the almost-indigo shade of the doctor's eyes mirrored the same sentiment Holmes himself was feeling at the moment. "Yes."

What happened next, Holmes would never classify as an earthy event. It was simply too sublime, too perfect and vicious and yet held all the tenderness of fresh-budding flowers in the earliest stages of spring. His heart hammered against his chest faster and harder than it ever had on any criminal chase, and yet in his mind he was completely at ease, thinking only of Watson; who had always been a source of comfort and tranquility in his reckless life.

They suddenly were in Holmes' bedroom, as if transported there. And their clothes were suddenly on the floor, as if they had been torn off by invisible hands, rather than shaking and clumsy ones. And suddenly they were eye-to-eye again, cheeks flushed and short breaths in rhythm and arms around each other.

And the next time Holmes kissed Watson, he didn't open his eyes for some time, allowing his other senses to take over and trusting his body to communicate through their silence. Still, without looking, he could tell that the doctor's eyes were closed, too. But only for a bit.

He should probably think himself a sinner. A criminal, at the very least. He should probably dread the next time the Yard came to him, feeling guilty at having committed an illegal act himself. In short, Sherlock Holmes realized when he woke up the next morning that he should feel like a man changed for the worse, having done something horrible and also having violated the law he so ardently worked to uphold.

But he only yawned lazily, stretching his legs and running a hand through the sleeping Watson's short golden hair. He felt fine. A bit sore from exerting himself in ways he normally did not, perhaps. But he was still him, still Holmes. If anything, he felt better than he had the previous day when he awoke. Not simply because the only being he had ever loved and wanted was now curled up in his arms and sleeping peacefully in the pale morning light; also because he knew that all the years of friendship had been no waste of time, and in marrying Mary, Watson had far from abandoned him.

It seemed that love had always lain there, right beneath the surface and waiting patiently to mature and release itself, like a butterfly from a cocoon.

Holmes felt a delicate thrill of excitement run through his heart, and he turned to kiss his beloved's forehead. He could not wait to see this butterfly take wing.

_So what'd you think? Please let me know :D Also, I intend to try and take into considerations some of the suggestions I've recived soon so look out for that too! Thanks for reading, I hope to hear from you ^^_


	11. Chapter 11 Irene Adler

_A/N: The disappearances grow longer and longer. Sorry, this was a combination of college stuff (I got accepted to an honors college with a very nice scholarship, and a safety school ^^) and some family issues. My little sister spent 4 days in a hospital for brain MRIs and then my dad spent 5 days in a hospital in another county (re-read that, not country!) for a triple bipass. So I've been a little...frazzled. But now things are looking up and I hope to start updating frequently again :3 Please enjoy!_

**Title: Irene Adler  
Category: Movieverse  
Rating: T  
Warnings: Some serious Irene Adler-bashing, though it's from Watson's perspective. Also, spoilers to Scandal in Bohemia for those reading the canon, so if you want to skip this until you've after you've read it, be my guest :)**

Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc  
"After this, therefore becaues of this"

Irene Adler

(Dr. Watson's POV)

I would never say I hate _the woman. _I can't deny strongly disliking her, hoping to avoid her anytime I know she's in London, breathing sighs of relief anytime I know she's abroad, and should she ever get hit by a train, or run over by a hansom, or sink in a ship on her way to our land, I would probably not feel particularly sorry for her.

But hate is a strong word, and what's more, it might upset Holmes to use it, and _the woman_ in the same sentence.

I, John H. Watson, M.D., have no reason to hate her. After all, aside from occasionally flustering my dearest friend, and sometimes flaunting in public the fact that she has him twisted around her slender little finger…and downright manipulating him to the point where she puts our lives at stake and nearly kills _my _Holmes…rather, she can sometimes be an inconvenience on cases, it's not like she's personally done anything to me.

What bothers me about her is her audacity. A woman is meant to be a subservient being. I don't mean to sound chauvinistic like Holmes, but if women were meant to strut about the globe, marrying and divorcing men while still maintaining a level of respect in my mind—in anyone's!—then I daresay the world would be a chaotic place.

That is one reason. My other simply lies in the loyalty and devotion I have towards Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and the man whom above all else I revere. That anyone alive could outsmart Holmes (twice, might I pointedly add) is something for which even if I were to feel respect for, I would also feel resentment. Holmes is justice incarnate,and if one is to cross paths with him, surely it is down the path to injustice, no matter how supreme his or in this case _her_ intellect may be. Furthermore, in the case of the Scandal in Bohemia, it was simply intuition and anxiety on the part of _the_ _woman_, and overconfidence on the part of Sherlock Holmes that allowed her to get away before we could get the documents we needed. I concede that we were unsuccessful, but Holmes' methods were clear cut, and had we acted that night, we might have thwarted her yet.

The second time I will not mention, as Holmes' personal life is his and his business alone. But it was only the woman's beguiling ways and wily personality that allowed her to outsmart him. Had he not been so enraptured by her, yes, I daresay that if he had kept his normally indifferent front, again he could have risen as the victor of the dispute which befell them.

As it is, she has twice outsmarted him by seducing him, and not by using any intellect whatsoever. I personally wish to admonish those who view the situation as otherwise, but that is not what I am here to discuss. I feel the need to bring this up because the woman is expected over here to our humble abode in a quarter of an hour for tea.

XXX

"So then, Sherlock, I pray you'll accept the case?" She bats her long, dark eyelashes at him and looks at him with glimmering eyes.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

You see, _the_ _woman_—that is to say: Miss Irene Adler has come to Holmes regarding a case she herself (and nobody else, she insists indignantly) wants him to take up. It's a rather sad story involving a personal friend of hers (who knew she had any?), a financial situation, and a short tempered brute molesting her dear friend night and day. If 'Sherlock' can simply help her friend untangle the threads which play a role in the financial debt, the she will be free and Miss Adler will be forever in Holmes' debt (as if she wasn't already).

"Irene, since the case with Blackwood I have been quite busy," he answers slowly, hesitantly. I wish I could tell him not to let her see his hesitation, his fear, but I bite my tongue as he expects me to. "And the case can be cleared up by any private detective, I assure you, if it really is too delicate a matter for the Yard as you have said. I wish I could be of more help, but the case offers few points of interest, and many drab clichés the likes of which might be more suited for Watson's writing style than my detective style."

He casts me a smirk and I cast him a glare as her pale face momentarily turns back in my direction. I know that she had certainly forgotten about me for a moment, lost in a world of only her dearest 'Sherlock' (_my _Holmes) and herself. Her obscenely pink self. Our eyes meet for a fraction of a second and then we are both watching Holmes again, me temperamentally and she hopefully.

"Sherlock, please," she begins with a voice sweet as honey that drips from her full lips readily. She's pleading with him with an almost kittenish manner and looking at him like a temptress. I read uncertainty in his eyes and he clears his throat. "This would mean so much to Kitty…" her friend's name is Kitty? Ironic. Well, Catherine, I suppose, but still. "And it would also mean so much to me…" Well who cares? Why don't _you_ solve the case, Miss Adler?

"If I get any breakthroughs in my other cases, I suppose I could look into it. It seems simple enough." He responds, picking at some dried clay caked on his nails and cuticles from an earlier geographic study he was immersed in.

Wait, what?

"Do you really mean it?"

"I will have none of your paying up front," he answers sharply, looking up at her with very dark eyes.

She looks about to hesitate, then nods willingly. "Have it your way. I thank you from the bottom of my heart." And with that she rises, graceful as a butterfly, and flutters across the room to kiss his cheek boldly. His eyebrows rise slightly and my heart temporarily gets dislodged somewhere in my throat, obstructing my windpipe, and she pulls back with a self-satisfied look. "I guess I'll be seeing you then."

"That you will," he answers quietly, and she gathers her things and quits the room, calling a curt goodbye to me, which I do not answer.

After she is gone, I slump in my chair in a foul mood while Holmes begins leafing through notes he took earlier on his geography, apparently not thinking much of the case.

"Irene's visit has left you in dark spirits, I see, Watson."

I sit up in surprise as he reads my thoughts and shrug. "I just don't see why you always succumb to her requests. Are you really that masochistic?"

"May I inquire what is with you and your theories of my masochistic tendencies?" he asks smartly, looking at me with some annoyance.

"I only suggest such because you always melt into her, like a moth helplessly drawn to a flame, and then she leaves you high and dry, and very, very hurt."

He looks at me for a few moments silently, Holmes does. _My_ Holmes. And I drink in the beauty that is his face: dark brown eyes, messy black hair, gracefully-chiseled chin and chapped, chewed lips. My mind wanders and I find myself wanting to cup that beautiful face in my hands and run my fingers across it gently, just to feel the different textures of his skin, his soft hair, his rough stubble, his silken eyelashes…

"Why do you say 'hurt?'" he startles me out of my reveries.

"Is it not obvious?" I demand harshly. To explain that I know how much Sherlock Holmes is in love with her is to admit defeat; that I know that obviously I am second on his list of importance and will always serve as such.

But his confused look confirms his innocent lack of knowledge on the topic, and as always, I sacrifice my own pride to explain it. "You love her. And every time she comes by, you hope above all hope that she'll fall in love with you too. And every time, she just leaves again, having spent you, consequently breaking your heart yet again."

It hurts me to say it, but I wonder if it doesn't hurt him even more to hear it. I look at him nervously, afraid I've said too much but he only narrows his brows in thought. Finally, he rises and moves to stand before me, looking down at me.

"You think I'm in love with Irene Adler? Watson, as usual, your reasoning is rather solid, and certainly has a hint of logic somewhere, but your conclusions are erroneous. Irene is something dear to me simply because she is such an enigma and also because of the danger that follows her wherever she goes. She fascinates me to say the least, but I certainly do not love her."

"You…" my world has just been turned upside-down. "You do not?"

As if my mental reeling weren't already disorientating-enough, Holmes suddenly leans down and presses his lips firmly to mine.

"Listen to me," he breathes, tobacco and tea-scented mist upon my lips. "I never knew those were your causes for hating her so. Please try and lessen the loathing in your heart and in turn understand that there is only one being I will ever hope against hope will fall in love with me."

I could tell him that if it'd make him happy, I'd forgive her forever and accept her as a welcome guest in our home. Or I could tell him that I'm sorry my conclusions were wrong and I wish I was as intelligent as he. I could even tell him that in a way, she fascinates me too, and that's one more thing that we share in common. But instead, I simply pull him close to me and smile broadly at the most beautiful face I've ever been blessed to cast my eyes upon, and tell him:

"You needn't hope any longer."

I'm more focused on our second kiss, and I finally find out what I've dreamt Irene Adler has tasted on her smirking lips for years.

_Hope you enjoyed, and I hope Adler fans aren't mad. I absolutely LOVE Rachel McAdams and her colorful version of Irene Adler, but I find her a bit overrated, and my only Holmes buddy is OBSESSED with her, and makes her the center of the universe (not the sun, and not the earth, as Holmes might be confused over the true center XD) This was a bit of a rant on that I suppose (they just don't belong together! ) And since I know she won't read this, THIS RANT GOES OUT TO SHERLOCK HOLMES AND JOHN WATSON ALONE, NO PRINCESSES INTERVENING._

_Uhg so sorry, just fed up. I hope you enjoyed, please let me know what you think!_

_FINALLY, HarryPotterResidentEvilFanJnL, your suggestion is being processed and will hopefully be seen soon, as a preview for you ;) Thanks everyone!_


	12. Chapter 12 London's Gray

_A/N: Hey, it's been a while, sorry I've been quite busy. But I wanted to extend a thanks for all your lovely reviews and support through my tough time, I reward you all with virtual cookies, sweetened by Holmes' very own bees! :D Sorry for the short poem chapter, but I've got lots of ideas so soon I hope to publish some more! Enjoy. (This is Watson's POV by the by) :)_

Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc  
"After this, therefore because of this"

**Title: London's Gray  
Category: Bookverse, but can easily be movieverse  
Rating: K  
Warnings: None**

Disclaimer: Not mine T^T

London's Gray (A Poetry Ficlet)

Listlessly thinking,

Endlessly wishing,

Lying and waiting,

And thinking of you.

Under no pretense,

Or color, or distress,

In a city that's lifeless,

There's no getting through.

Mountains,

The buildings rise up like mountains,

Piercing the fog and the gray.

Cobblestones glisten,

With dampness,

Just listen,

A rumbles rolls in,

Another rainy day.

Curiously watching,

In silence so pressing,

The sound of a footfall,

The one I know well.

Like a bright angel,

And looking so lovely,

Before me you stand,

And I feel my heart swell.

The outside world bleached

In endless complacency

Some call this insanity

I call it love.

_Ah, Victorian forbidden love agnst XD Anyway, let me know what you think, I hope to see you all soon!_


	13. Chapter 13 Discordance

_A/N: Yay another chapter and a personal favorite of mine! :D So glad I got this typed up before I lost my little notebook...that was just teeming with great work and ideas...and also a lot of sexual fics...Really hope I didn't lose it in school O.O" Anywhoo, enjoy, and thanks for all reviews and favorites, alters, etc, thus far! They all brighten my day ^^_

Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc  
"After this, therefore because of this"

**Title: **Discordance**  
Category: **Movieverse**  
Rating:** T+**  
Warning: **A few very brief but very sexual scenes alluded to! o.O skip if you don't want to read!

Disclaimer: Sir ACD, Guy Richie, RDJude-I mean RDJ and Jude Law respectively-! (not! :3) Not mine, theirs!

Discordance

At night they fell asleep together.

Seldom gazing lovingly into one another's eyes, but still together.

And by day, they were side by side, always. Arms linked, steps harmonious with the other's; they would finish each other's sentences and share smiles only they could share.

Watson's smile always faltered somewhere between his lips and his eyes.

Because there were much sweeter smiles to be shared between…

_They were walking through the park hand-in-hand._

That woman. She had long-since claimed Holmes' heart. In a way Mary had not quite managed to do. She had pulled the detective close…smothered him until her essence bled into his being and was seeped into his soul. And no matter where she traveled, no matter who she married, he was hers.

He seemed content with that treatment though. He was so, so in love with that woman, he was.

_Watson's fingers tightened fractionally around Holmes' for a moment, a loving squeeze._

Perhaps that was the reason for the detective's sympathy: the fact that love had coldly abandoned the doctor without remorse. Pretty little thing Mary had been. Weak, though.

It started with a cough and ended with a coffin.

_Holmes' head inclined to the doctor, who smiled and pointed at a dogwood tree in full bloom. Beautiful white flowers blossoming…_

Kneeling in an empty church and praying, Watson had been grateful for Holmes' presence behind him, there beside him when the weeping came, a strong hand on his shaking shoulder, morose.

Over time, something had changed. That woman, of course, was long gone. Off and marrying some Italian nobleman. But Holmes wasn't much affected; his legs were wrapped around the doctor's narrow waist, his strong arms pinning Watson down.

_The brown-eyed man only nodded and looked ahead, his eyes (and thoughts) elsewhere._

The detective's sympathy arose from Watson's handicap: he had lost love; Holmes couldn't just abandon him. It would be too cruel for words. It wasn't like Holmes had ever regarded him as anything more than a close friend…but still.

As slick bodies became one and gasps were stifled by kisses, the blue-eyed man tried hard to convince himself it was love, not empathy, that brought them together.

Sometimes that was hard to believe though.

They were two but functioned as one. But there was a gap somewhere between them that prevented love from blossoming like a dogwood tree.

Holmes loved another, and Watson's smile always faltered somewhere between his eyes and his lips.

Their fingers were intertwined.

Their footfalls: simultaneous.

And Holmes eyes, they were elsewhere.

And his heart?

Well, that was never there in the first place.


	14. Chapter 14 Fireflies

_A/N: Ah, sorry for the delay, AP exams. Environmental was today, and I think I definately did well :D So now that I'll have more time, let's forge ahead! Thanks to all the reviewers, you guys make my day every time! This chapter is one that I'm most proud of, it was heavily influenced by Jodi Piccoult, since I was reading _My Sister's Keeper_at the time I wrote this. Enjoy, and let me know if you can see the influence! :)_

Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc  
"After this, therefore because of this"

**Title:** Fireflies**  
Category:** Movieverse**  
Rating: **T**  
Warnings: **None really, Holme having a little trouble focusing at first ("My eyes are up here Holmes!") Not really like that XD

Disclaimer: Yes. That is, no.

Fireflies

"Come now, old boy. I have something to show you."

Even in the dim light of dusk, Holmes could see the gleam in Watson's deep blue eyes. It wasn't there often, and he looked luminous. So it perturbed him slightly that he was leading the detective by the hand _away _from the bedroom instead towards the door of the cabin he had rented.

The story was not so new to him. 'Holmes you look so pale,' or 'Chap, you're far too thin,' or 'How can you breathe with all this smoke in the room? You really need some fresh air…'

And eventually, Holmes would succumb to Watson's fretting, and he would eat a full meal, or take a walk through the park with him. But there were times that his nervous system crashed entirely, times that really set the doctor off. These times, consuming an uninspired meal by Mrs. Hudson, or listening to a two-hour monologue by the blue-eyed man about every last bloody robin they passed on the way through the park (Mister or Misses Robin Redbreast, depending on Watson's fancy) was not enough to sate the doctor's need to improve _(control)_ Holmes' health.

These times led to quaint little trips to the country, where Watson rented quaint little cottages for them to stay in and they met quaint old-fashioned townsfolk and picked flowers and…well, surely there were better things to occupy the mind. Holmes thought, anyway.

Yet he always found himself there, at the doctor's side in an uninhabited meadow. Watson was remarkable at making crowns from violets and clovers, and Holmes would rattle off the anatomy of the flowers while the arts-and-crafts session commenced. Every. Single. Time.

But now night was falling, and Holmes failed to understand what the doctor was up to (unless he desired a wreath of moonflowers to match the other ones he had made). He didn't object. There was no point. Everything, every last breath the doctor took while on these holidays together, was to improve Holmes' health after it faltered a bit, and he had long-since stopped resisting.

"You'll like it, I hope." He murmured sweetly, opening the ancient door of the summer home and grabbing two mason jars, (_commonly used for canning and jelling local jams,_ Holmes thought, _such as mint, currant, even raspberry—_) "Though, I can't see why you wouldn't so, let's be off."

"Well I can save you the trip outside if you tell me what it is you're planning," the brown-eyed man pointed out with a shrug.

Watson turned to look at him in the doorway. Twilight was quickly dying away to evening, and early rays of moonlight silhouetted his tall, slender form. Once again, the detective was reminded of the fact that the bedroom was a few long strides behind him.

"Because," he answered, giving extra length to the second syllable in a fashion Holmes only ever heard from indignant women and fresh adolescents, "then it won't be a surprise. Just trust me and follow along."

Without another word, he had disappeared outside into the forthcoming darkness, and the brown-eyed man had no choice but to follow along. He followed the quick-moving form of the doctor before him, memorizing the broad curve of his shoulders and the way the back of his legs moved under his clothing, the same way he had memorized those very things without clothing obstructing his view.

Watson stopped abruptly towards the edge of the pathway that led through the forest. Holmes caught up to him and looked around in the limited light as the moon rose and the last grey clouds became dark, dark blue. Their cottage was situated along the bottom of a long, sloping hill. At the peak of the hill loomed the forest, which looked none-too inviting in the dark of night. It was not a very steep trek, so neither man was out of breath. About one hundred yards away stood their cheerful white hovel (as Holmes called it sarcastically to grate on the doctor's nerves).

Between the two landmarks, there was nothing more than a dirt path and grassy fields.

"So why have you dragged me here when I could be smoking my second cigar and pouring my third glass of port?" the detective asked with a wry grin.

"Your humor alludes to your previous state of illness," the blue-eyed man responded automatically, though his lips too tugged up a bit in the corners, try as he might to prevent it. "And I wanted to relive a childhood memory. Our holiday ends tomorrow, Holmes. Time here has gone fast—"

"Just as it always does, no doubt."

Though it was only momentary, hurt flashed in Watson's large eyes, and Holmes bit his tongue, making a mental credence to cut back the sarcasm on their last night alone together. By the time he had decided this, though, the doctor's smile was back in place.

"And I figured that we could share some childlike moments," he placed one of the mason jars in the dark-haired man's hand, "I think nostalgia can be a medicine all its own, you see."

Holmes blinked. "We're going to make jam?"

Watson blinked. "Beg pardon?"

Silence fell between them. Crickets were chirping. It was growing even darker by the second. Finally, after clearing his throat, the doctor spoke again. "Holmes…are you really that dumb? Don't tell me you've never caught fireflies before?"

The detective frowned, feathers ruffled, and shook his head. "Caught fireflies? Is it some sick game you country folk enjoy? Like crushing pill bugs under rocks?"

"What are you insinuating my childhood was like…?You know what? Never mind," Watson reconsidered after a moment, not wanting to explain the many flaws with Holmes assumptions on what it was like to grow up in less urban areas in England. "Holmes, see the fireflies?" He motioned around the field in which they stood.

"Watson, inhale lately?"

Oh, hadn't he been trying to cut back on the sarcasm?

But it was nothing shy of an insult to ask if the brightest man in London was aware of the blinking yellow lights floating all around them. There had to be hundreds of them, flying right past them. **Of course **_the _Sherlock Holmes saw them. He had noticed them before he had set a foot outside, actually.

Too exasperated for words, or perhaps simply hoping that by stilling his own tongue, he could still Holmes' poison one, Watson wordlessly opened the jar and turned to the field, reaching out just after a firefly flashed about a foot in front of him, and catching it. He then held it up for the detective to see; he had his own little jar of light.

_So that's how you were able to afford a night-light as a child._

_I've never heard of firefly jam before._

_Is that a playmate for the pill bug?_

There were a thousand and one comments that flooded Holmes mind at that moment, but he only smiled instead. He had never done this as a child, but if he was going to be honest with himself, it looked quite fun. And frankly, he wanted to try it himself.

Opening the lid to his own jar, he looked around for a suitable test subject, and when one blinked a bit to his left, he rushed for it. Unfortunately, the flash of yellow was fleeting, and by the time his hands came forward to trap the creature, it had blended back into its shadowy surroundings.

"Missed it," he whispered.

Watson had been watching, mirth alighting every feature of his face, and feeling satisfied, he turned to catch another bug of his own.

The detective meanwhile wasn't having much luck. He tired to follow the fireflies, to move quickly and catch the temporarily suspended suns before they became no more than insects once again. But each time he was too slow. He walked in circles, cut to the left and the right, all with no luck.

"How many did you get?" Watson's voice evaporated the faintest coat of frustration that was just beginning to slip over his mind. He turned. There had to be almost ten fireflies in the mason jar the doctor held.

"Not…as many as you," he answered, feeling oddly ashamed, like a child, as he held up his own.

"You can't try and catch the light," he answered, smiling kindly. "You have to try and catch the bug itself.

"How? I can't make them out in the dark."

"You don't look for them. Just stare straight ahead; look at the big picture, my dear boy. After a moment, you can see one in front of you. Movement will catch the corner of your eye. Focus on that, rather than trying to focus on what you haven't yet seen."

Staring off into space was no habit of Holmes'. He focused his eyes wherever they fell, taking in every last detail of whatever he saw. But now, he relaxed a bit and allowed his eyes to look into oblivion, for his gaze to be on nothing more than the air. And suddenly his vision was swarming. Because though the dark, he in fact _could _see the individual fireflies.

"Aha!"

Lunging forward, he caught two in one fell swoop. Turning back to the taller man, as if for praise, he held up his jar proudly and both bugs lit up.

"No—! Holmes, the lid!"

But it was too late. Already, both of them had flown out through the open jar. Holmes gaped but suddenly, his eyes landed on Watson's, and both men burst into fits of laughter.

For the next hour, it didn't matter that this was a childhood experience Holmes had been deprived of. Because suddenly he was a boy again, knees scraped, lips sticky from sugar, hair knotted. And though he had only known Watson for his adult life, the doctor was a boy as well as they ran around the field together, laughing and catching bugs. Holmes' health was more-than improved; he felt better than he had his whole life.

Finally, when they became too tired to catch bugs anymore, they made their way back down the hill.

"Holmes," Watson burst out laughing at the threshold, "you can't put that many in a single jar!"

"I like them," he answered defensively, holding his jar of forty seven fireflies away from the doctor.

"Never mind," he chuckled, "we have to let them go now anyway."

"Let them go?" he echoed incredulously. "After all the fun I had catching them?"

"They'll die all sealed up," he answered, matter-of-fact as always, already opening his own container and tapping the side, so the insects flew off to freedom once again. But as he opened the door and went to step back inside, resealing the jar, his eyes fell on Holmes' face.

It took some coaxing to let most of the fireflies out of the jar. After that it took only a cheesecloth, some twine, and a cleared bedside table to showcase Holmes' beautiful jar of light to the entire bedroom.

Curled up safe and warm in bed together, the detective and the doctor both admired it.

"Mm…this has been our best holiday yet," Holmes murmured, kissing the blue-eyed man's exposed collarbone. "Maybe we could take one more day off and stay here."

"I don't think I can afford that," he answered with a laugh, fondly twirling his fingers around the detective's errant curls.

The brown-eyed man smiled and rested his head comfortably Watson's chest. "Ah well. I'm not ready to return to London and gloom and reality just yet. Grant me one more night to convalesce with you?"

He didn't need to see the other man's face to know he was smiling. "Granted."

_So did you like? Please let me know :3 Also, for the next question, I need some advice. It's like really super one-liner brief, but I need a name for Holmes to use down at the Punchbowl. You know, like how people are "The Undertaker" and "The One-Eyed Mongler" (yeah I made that up) and stuff like that. Best suggestion gets a prize? ;) You guys up for stuff like that in this fandom? Get creative, lend me a hand, OK? It'll be awesome!_

_Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed. I hope to see you soon!_


	15. Chapter 15 Hadigaw?

_A/N: Back again, and almost done with that pesky school, so I'll have more time to muse, write, and update :D (before that I'll have to do all these graduation rehersals and crap and prom, but I'm graduating Saludatorian of my class so yay ^^) _

_First off, thanks to all who reviewed the last chapter and for suggestions for a nickname for Holmes at the Punch Bowl. Icy Sapphire 15 suggested something along the lines of Doctor Death which made me smile...mswriter pointed out quite astutely that Holmes uses the non-de-plume William Scott (am I using that term right? would 'alias' be a better word? O.O) which I love and was too dense to notice myself while watching the movie. I think reflekshun is the winner, however-the British Brainiac it is! *virtual pipes stolen from Holmes for you!*_

_Finally, PLEASE READ SO YOU ISN'T LIKE "HUUUH?":_

_When watching the epic scene in the film, my sister's personal favorite, when Holmes leaps out a window to pursue Adler after her visitation, he yells something inarticulate at Watson as he jumps that kinda sounds like "gotta go!" After imitating it dozens of times, my friend Coco, the Holmes to my Watson, settled on "Hadigaw" (Hah-dih-Gaw). It just-works! So enjoy that explanation and this wacky install! :D_

Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc  
"After this, therefore because of this"

**Title: **Hadigaw...?**  
Category: **Movieverse!**  
Rating: **Stong T**  
Warnings:** Sexual suggestions at the end, general silliness througout :P

Disclaimer: Not mine. Sir ACD, RDJ, Judsie Pie, Guy Ritchie. Damn them all.

Hadigaw?

If Holmes could remember correctly (and honestly, when _didn't _Holmes remember correctly?) the term had originated after a visit from Irene Adler. The first one, in fact, while she was under the employment of Professor Moriarty. He had wanted to follow her after she left, and the best way to sneak around without her keen womanly senses being aroused was by using the back exit. No door existed.

And so, a window had sufficed.

He could still remember the doctor's look of flushed indignation when they met together in the corridor. And, upon leaping out the two-story window, the strange term—expression, perhaps, was that a better word?—or maybe ejaculation—the outright **battle cry**had been birthed:

"Hadigaw!"

Holmes had cried this as he leapt out the window and onto the roof of the shed below. The likes of which was rather old and in need of repair if it could not hold a single grown man's weight, for it had collapsed and no yells of "Ah! Watson! Watsooon!" would summon his beloved loyal dog to his side.

After the case surrounding Blackwood was solved and forgotten, that odd catchphrase—yes! _that_ was what he would call it—stayed with him. Any dangerous stunt that he pulled while working on a case, be it leaping off a moving clipper and into the Thames, sliding down a banister in a manor house on the run from armed thieves, or running down the streets in lesser areas of Whitechapel, the sound of a carriage gaining on him every second and life flashing before his eyes:

"Hadigaw!"

And the catchphrase made its way into other aspects of his life, like his deductive skills. When he would sit, ounce upon ounce of shag disappearing into his pipe and hygiene becoming less and less important as he wracked his skillful brain trying to solve cases presented to him, the answers would suddenly come with an exclamation attached to them.

In the tumbler of the bartender at Shuckley's Bar was where he would find the jewel!

"Hadigaw!"

Of course! Why hadn't he thought of it sooner? The strange smell in the air indicated a vent somewhere; surely if he looked behind the painting in the room he would find the passageway that led downstairs!

"Hadigaw!"

Obviously if even his wife didn't know about the case, then his female confidant had to be another woman he was close to. But it was not the maid—but the wife's sister who knew about the stolen documents!

"Hadigaw!"

And, like some sort of fungus making its way through a forest, or like poison traveling form a single puncture wound and through the entire body, Holmes found that the glorious catchphrase of his had even begun to consume his life outside the study of crime.

It started one day when a particularly temperamental chemical substance he had received from the black market created a precipitate when mixed in with ammonia and a small amount of magnesium sulfate, just as he had hoped it would.

"Hadigaw!"

And from that glorious moment on, there was no containing Holmes' ejaculations of success, of pride and of excitement and of joy at the sheer glory of life. It was his epiphany, really.

"Mr. Holmes, I'm making mutton tonight."

"Hadigaw!"

"Holmes, this waistcoat is simply too short for me. You may have it if you like."

"Hadigaw!"

"I just heard, Mr. Holmes, that the weather is supposed to stay this lovely all week."

"Hadigaw!"

"The winner of this match is the British Brainiac!" (Holmes' nickname at the Punchbowl)

"Hadigaw!"

Indeed, 'Hadigaw' had in fact made it into nearly every aspect of his life. Save perhaps for certain quips he reserved for more bitter arguments with Watson, Holmes had never been a man who had any reserved expressions to use. Needless to say having one was quite enthralling, and discretion was not yet something he had come to respect. Until, of course, that faithful night.

"Hadigaw!"

Throwing his head back, the dark-eyed detective cried his favorite term ardently and rather loudly, sweat dripping from his brow. His head dropped back down and he found his eyes locked on a surprised pair of blue ones.

Below him, messy-haired and pink-cheeked, with glistening (spread) limbs and a pronounced frown overtaking his mouth, lay Watson, who too had been in the throes of passion mere seconds ago.

He was none too pleased now.

"Hadi…gaw?" he asked, catching his breath and trying to push Holmes off of himself so he could sit, propped up on his elbows. "Never 'John,' not even 'Watson,' just…that thing you say?"

"It's more than just a thing I say," he answered guardedly, seeing the doctor's hackles rise (a beautiful but dangerous sight indeed). "It's…it's currently part of who I am."

"A few seconds ago, you could've said the same thing about me."

"Don't be ridiculous, my dear chap, you—"

Oceanic orbs froze over. There was no pity or lenience.

"Um…yes, forgive me, Watson. I didn't mean—"

But that was the end of it.

Watson was remarkably stubborn and firm in resolve when he wanted to be, and despite the longing for love and even friendship that the detective was sure he must be feeling, he thoroughly ignored his existence for one full week after the incident. Quite obviously, the dark-haired man's glorious battle cry ceased to exist utterly in that week, and not a soul in London claims to have heard it since.

In the same magnificent flame with which it had sparked into his life, the catchphrase burned out like a shooting star, falling off the face of the earth.

Damn, Watson sure was a killer of all things fun and joyous.

_Bastard_, Holmes thought resentfully.

_Hope you liked! Thanks again to reflekshun! *offers her virtual Hotson stip tease* yay :D And please note, starting next chapter, these won't all be stories, some will just be short snippets and me experimenting with descriptions and ideas and stuff. There will be stories too though. Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed, please review and let me know what you think! Thank you ^^_


	16. Chapter 16 Drowning

_A/N: Hey, sorry it's been a while! Hoping to get another chapter out tomorrow to compensate for how short this one is. Enjoy :)_

Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc  
"After this, therefore because of this"

**Title**: Drowning  
**Category**: Movieverse  
**Rating**: K  
**Warnings**: None

Disclaimer: Don't own, wish I did. Sir ACD and Director Guy Ritchie

Drowning

(Holmes' POV)

Running a hand through my hair, I look up with a sigh and reluctantly meet Watson's gaze.

His eyes are dark. Darker than I remember them being when I slipped out hours ago to the fighting ring. I can't quite tell if it's because his pupils are wide in the 2 o'clock stillness that's befallen Baker Street, or because his irises, already the darkest shade of blue I've ever seen as an eye-color, have indeed grown a shade deeper still.

He didn't much like the color, when we first met. I commented as he was moving his bags into our flat rather offhandedly about them, and he expressed a dislike for their atypical shade. I told him that I found the color to be like an angry and powerful ocean, and after that I believe he saw them in a new light…and even took pride in them.

I'm reminded of that now as I glance at him, but his look quickly brings me back to the present situation; to how livid he truly is.

They say that drowning is a peaceful way to die.

Whoever said that never looked Watson in the eye when he's been crossed.

_Again, sorry it was short, hope to see you really soon, please let me know what you think, and thanks for all the reviews thus far :D_


	17. Chapter 17 Lemon and Juniper

_A/N: Sorry it's a day late, but here's another installation :D Please enjoy!_

Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc  
"After this, therefore because of this"

**Title**: Lemon and Juniper  
**Category**: Movieverse  
**Rating**: K  
**Warnings**: None

Disclaimer: Director Guy Richie, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, RDJ, Jude Law, ayafangi-no just kidding XP

Lemon and Juniper

He had always called it a barter system, and frankly, Sherlock Holmes had not been lying. It was of no consequence to him whether or not John Watson, M.D. chose to take advantage of his lenience when it came to lending out material possessions. And truly, he wouldn't really mind it if Watson did borrow his things. He felt no guilt taking the doctor's shirts, waistcoats, stockings and occasionally, trace amounts of his medicines (only for chemical experimentation) because he was completely willing to compensate if the doctor ever needed to borrow anything from him. His cigars, cigarettes, his jackets and his Bunsen burners: if Watson had any need to use any one of those objects he surely would allow him to do so.

It was trust, really, and he knew Watson would take care of his things. Just as he tried to return his shirts without stains, his hats, before they were completely bent beyond repair, and once a pair of shoes (that the blue-eyed man seldom used anyway) before they became _completely _un-wearable what with the smell of the Thames (he hadn't expected to be thrown in by that huge convict, after all).

It was not a trying matter to deduce when the doctor did in fact take advantage of the barter system one day, and without asking, nonetheless.

Personally, there was no way that Holmes could be mad in the first place. He was aware how important hygiene was, and he tired to pay heed to its importance although cases occasionally got in the way of that. The detective also understood how his companion especially needed to keep himself clean and hygienic as a doctor. So he wondered vaguely why the blue-eyed man was too shy to ask to borrow his soap the day that he did.

Pulling on his suit jacket, the doctor strode across the room to where Holmes was lounging in an armchair, lost in thought and tobacco smoke.

"I'll be home by six o'clock," he murmured, gently so that the detective would not be roused out of his thoughts if they were indeed important, and planting a light kiss on his cheek.

Holmes's half-lidded eyes widened fractionally, and his hand was around his companion's collar before he could pull back.

Watson started at the quick and slightly aggressive motion, but looked with a patience that spoke of years of friendship at the intelligent man waiting for an explanation.

"Usually when you leave on your rounds, the spring-like scent of juniper accompanies you out the door," he spoke around the old clay pipe.

Shooting him a curious look, he nodded in agreement. "Yes, Holmes. I know that."

"Yet today, the fresh smell of citrus, more specifically lemon zest, clings to you. You forget just how heightened my senses are, dear chap."

Watson frowned slightly. "Hol—"

"You used my soap without asking," he drawled lazily.

Uncomfortably, the doctor dropped his gaze. "I thought we had a barter system," he forced out pathetically.

Now Holmes' eyes opened all the way and he pulled the doctor closer once again, kissing his temple and then inhaling the clean scent of his hair deeply. "We do," he responded. "I'm not chastising you."

"Ah, right," Watson laughed mirthlessly, pulling back. "I must be off now, or I'll be late for my appointment with my first patient."

If one thing always rang true, it was that Holmes was a terribly awkward man. With a faint blush, he called after the retreating back of his friend. "Wait…Watson, I'm trying to compliment you," he called.

The addressed man turned, eyes questioning.

"You…you should always use my soap…lemon suits you better than juniper. I like that it makes you smell the same as me."

For all the hassle it was to pay a simple compliment, it was worth it to be graced with a luminous smile and the bright pink blush that accompanied it as Watson beamed at Holmes.

"Oh…I see. Alright, it's a deal," he said happily, turning and exiting.

Holmes was left alone in the room, the faint smell of soap still in his nose. The image of Watson, nude and in the bath, slender fingers working a lather out of _his _soap, and spreading it over his body, flitted across his mind's eye.

With a pleasurable shudder, the detective forced his mind to other matters. Somehow he felt it might scare his companion to know just how much he liked him reciprocating their little game of trade-off.

_Please let me know what you think, what you'd like to see, etc :) Oh, and let me leave you with this:_

_"_What are you going to do now, Mr. Holmes?"  
My friend smiled and layed his hand upon my arm.  
_-The Adventure of the Devil's Foot_

_...Yeah. He basically says he and Watson should return to the cottage at which they are visiting after that. Am I the only one who thinks Sir ACD shipped hard HxW too? XD_


	18. Chapter 18 Sweet and Bitter

_A/N: Hey, as always, sorry for the wait. This summer has been hectic to say the least heheh ^^" So let's all wish a happy birthday to my mom, this one is for her :D lol_

_Holmes: But why didn't you just shorten it to "bittersweet contradictions?"  
Aya: ...well...you know what? we can't all be geniuses! XD_

Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc  
"After this, therefore because of this"

**Title**: Sweet and Bitter Contradictions  
**Category**: Bookverse, as always, make it Movieverse if you so desire :P  
**Rating**: Strooooong T+  
**Warnings**: Veeery strong slash in the beginning. If you think you'd like to skip this chapter and wait for a more mild one, go ahead and do so ^^

Dislcaimer: still working on it guys. my birthday's comin' up...

Sweet and Bitter Contradictions

He absolutely loved it.

Those nights where the heat between them would build…torrid, torrid, until the chemist in him felt sure that their very proteins were denaturing and they were sure to both break apart at the seams and mold together into one entity.

Those nights where the moon would shine so luminously outside, so to view it better, he would roll onto his back, pulling Watson with him so the blond lay on top of him, clawing desperately at the sheets, his shoulders, anything, and would moan and plant feather light kisses along his collar bone.

Those nights Holmes would lay there, as soft strands of golden hair tickled his neck and his hips danced and arched against his lover's. And he would stare up at the moon.

He truly lived for those sweet nights.

When he could feel the scorching heat make his stomach clench, and without warning, he would flip their positions to how they had been previously, and he would crush the small blond against the mattress until he nearly choked.

"Holmes!"

Climaxing in and of itself was a glimpse into inhuman pleasure that he surely did not deserve. Bringing Watson to his climax was a privilege he alone was allowed to perform, and yet he still felt unworthy of witnessing such beauty. And also of feeling so unconditionally loved.

Round, blue eyes, glassy with unshed tears of passion would look up at him, pouring adoration and reverence out without the use of words. And, still gasping desperately for air but otherwise silent, he would reach a frail hand up to caress Holmes' cheek as his lips trembled.

The detective's heart would swell for a moment, and he would trace those shaking lips. He loved watching the doctor quake beneath him, and he also loved swooping down to tenderly, softly, claim those trembling lips.

He utterly loathed it.

Those moments where, for all his knowledgebase and skill, he was useless. Those moments where he felt like a child, standing there but unable to do a thing.

Holmes hated when the moon was reflected in Watson's glassy eyes. Lovely though it was, it looked so lonely when it was mirrored back from its original home in the sky.

Those nights that were so empty, and they had seen a lot. The time at Reichenbach Falls was a good example; Watson's eyes had wavered damply; he had been aware that danger was near. And upon Holmes' eventual return, that same look. Even on nights where he returned from a troubling day at work, normally involving a terminally ill child or mother…that weakness.

"Holmes…"

And, oh, God, for the life of him, he could not respond. What could he do? Only stand there before the doctor who dedicated far too much of his time restraining his emotions, and as he would fight back tears of frustration, or sadness, his lips would tremble.

Oh, such a hatred he felt for those miserable, desolate times as he searched his brain, wracking through chemistry and discoloration of stagecoach driver's trouser legs from mud, searching for comfort.

But Sherlock Holmes was not a sentimental man, and shaking rather than allowing his anguished emotions to spill forth, Watson would stand there while his lips trembled with the too-great effort of dissimilation.

Sometimes, if he was feeling particularly strong, Holmes would reach out and trace his lips. Slowly, those misty, moon-filled eyes would lift up to be captured by steel-gray ones.

And silence passed, empty seconds between them, before, lips shaking still, the blond would break down and cry.

And Holmes would hold him, and curse the beauty of those trembling lips.

_Please let me know if you liked, this was always one of my favorites :) It's also one of the only surviving stories from the notebook I lost that contained some of my best oneshots, so I'm glad I typed this before I lost the book, phew! Let me know what you think and what you want to see! As always, thanks for reading!_


	19. Chapter 19 All Those Times

_A/N: Hiii! It's been a while, sorry about that. And even more sorry because this is a rather depressing story XD oh well, what can ya do? So I'm starting to run low on material. You guys, seriously, suggestions?:3 i bet you've got a ton! Lemme hear 'em!_

_Anyway, sorry again because this is a sad story, but it is a bit long anyway._

Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc  
"After this, therefore because of this"

**Title**: All Those Times  
**Category**: Bookverse. as always, picture movieverse if that's your thing :)  
**Rating**: T+  
**Warnings**: Brief moment and mentions of sex; violence, and character death :(

Disclaimer: Don't you think I wish I owned it? And yet my wishes aren't coming true! DX

All Those Times

There were so many times he should have said it, he reflected bitterly. It was rather simple; just three little words. And they were the truth too, and wasn't Sherlock Holmes a man who always approved of stating the truth above all else? Well it's not like his silence had ever been a lie. Just that: silence.

He simply wasn't the right person, he told himself sometimes.

Not for Watson, anyway.

There was that time in the spring that they had walked together, little green buds decorating all the trees they passed and birds singing happily, loving the sun, rare occurrence that it was. To the doctor, a pleasant day, abundant wildlife in a small park, and Holmes' arm locked around his was Nirvana, and he beamed at the consulting detective, eyes alight.

"I love you," he breathed quietly, cheeks taking on a very light flush at the words. After several months of a quiet relationship, it was the first time the 'L' word had been used.

Holmes looked down at him, heart skipping spectacularly within his chest. His ever-churning mind battled momentarily, and before he even opened his mouth to respond, he had already decided that he was not yet ready to return the words. True though they may be, they were simply too sentimental. He needed more time.

Instead, he smiled and brushed down an errant strand of gold that had fallen out of place in the doctor's usually immaculately-brushed hair.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Then there was the first time they pushed their relationship further than simple kisses and the subtle holding of hands that had sufficed so long for both of them.

For a moment forgetting the sins that surrounded them in the bleak, foggy town, and for mere seconds tuning out of the world of the queer, the psychotic, the macabre schemes and plots that he had dedicated his life to cracking, Holmes had allowed himself to be immersed in only bliss and desire.

He whined slightly as the blue-eyed man ran delicate hands up his bare torso, and responded by further bruising the doctor's neck with his teeth, pressing still harder against his beloved companion until their hearts were beating against each other, different cadences making a single rhythm of lust and heated excitement.

"Holmes…" wide blue eyes looked up at him, smoky with passion, "I love you."

And Holmes didn't respond just then. Because he still didn't want such sentimental moments; he wasn't prepared for them. Instead he reached for the bottle of oil that laid waiting by the bedside and forced the corked bottle lid to the doctor's lips.

"Open," he demanded softly.

So Watson obediently took the cork between his teeth, and Holmes pulled the bottle lightly.

_-Pop!-_

_XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX_

Birthdays had never been a big deal to Holmes growing up, but he had to admit that July 7th* had somehow asserted itself to one of his favorite days of the year upon his acquaintance with Watson. It wasn't that the doctor cared much for birthdays either, but something about a chance to spoil the other rotten had become a pleasant new challenge for the two of them, and Holmes never backed down from a challenge.

It was their first birthday as lovers that they stood in the sitting room of the small villa that the detective had rented for a day, looking out the window and at the sunset, stars just starting to become visible in the furthermost reaches of the sky.

Holmes knew that Watson had enjoyed his birthday gift very much; fresh country air and a warm day to enjoy nature was the ideal gift in the doctor's mind.

He turned from the window just then to cast the detective a luminous smile, and for a moment Holmes wondered if the sun had not changed its mind about setting before he caught the stars reflected in the doctor's eyes and knew that it was indeed not the sun that lit the room so marvelously.

"Thank you, Holmes. I truly love you."

Well.

Another word had been added to the three-word mantra. For a moment, the detective studied the doctor's face and wondered if he was waiting for a little reciprocation, for the statement to become an exchanging of audible intimacy.

It could wait, he decided, and instead turned back to look at the diamonds glimmering above them on a navy-colored backdrop.

"Happy birthday," he murmured, lighting his pipe.

Watson nodded a thank you, and turned back to the window as well. He was silent for the rest of the night.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Holmes truly felt like a king on January 6th**. He half expected to be led out to a seaside cottage or simply brought to the Royale for his birthday. What he didn't expect was for the mischievous smile Watson passed him as he poured him coffee.

"I've rented out Doctor Bell's entire office for the day," he informed.

A curious glance was passed to him.

What this entailed, Holmes soon found out, was that Watson had gotten permission from another doctor to use not only the chemical lab attached to the hospital in which he worked, but also a few corpses. Never in his wildest dreams would he have imagined that the blue-eyed doctor of all people would allow him to perform any experiment he wanted, utilize blood samples and mix any aldehydes he desired. However dangerous, flammable, or malodorous, or simply uncouth they may be, Watson was at Holmes' side that lovely day, offering help and lighting his cigarettes for him, nodding eagerly and with clear interest as Holmes explained the many experiments he had been hoping to perform for some time.

Only in the evening, when he had positively concluded three of the theories he had been working on, found two more to be false hopes, and unintentionally but unquestionably disproved a recently-published theory by a popular young scientist at the time, did Holmes allow the doctor to then treat him to dinner at the Royale.

"You really made me feel better-treated than the Queen herself today, chap," he spoke around his veal with a smile.

"Anything for you Holmes," he responded. And then, so quietly that only ears trained to strain for the doctor's whispered statements did he catch, "Sherlock, I love you."

For the first time since he had originally been told he was loved, the consulting detective felt his heart lurch, and he blushed faintly at the use of his first name.

"Watson…" he looked up slowly to meet uncertain blue eyes.

"Forgive me!" he exclaimed, embarrassed. "_Holmes!_ Just…Holmes."

"Sherlock anytime you like," he answered around a sip of wine.

The meal was finished in silence, but every so often, he would catch the doctor smiling gently at him.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

There was a definite sweetness to life once love was added to the picture. Like the bitterest cup of tea becomes a midday treat when a simple spoonful of sugar is added to it, Holmes found life a blur of happiness around him. Smiles he never knew he could offer, laughs that rang like chimes in his ears, evenings that he found himself remembering with flushed cheeks for weeks to come.

It had still been just under a year since he had first begun his relationship with his biographer, and he felt like they had only been in love a week.

Not that they were 'officially' in love. Holmes was yet to return the words to the blue-eyed man.

He heard the words offered to him more and more often occasionally along with his Christian name (which decidedly sounded like a heavenly symphony when it rolled off of Watson's tongue), and he smiled, kissed the doctor's temple, and moved on. He was still not ready for the sentiment of love to bind him down.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

-_Bam!-_

The sound of a gunshot was not all that uncommon on a case when they were chasing down dangerous criminals.

What Holmes was most certainly not used to was the surprised gasp that followed it, and the sound of someone collapsing.

He had broken away from Watson and the accomplice of the murder to chase the actual murderer on a rather serious case, but now he froze, icy rain pelting down upon him and visible puffs of his breath escaping his lips in the cold February night down by the docks.

_No._

There was simply no way. Panic sending chills of apprehension down his spine, he ran in the direction of the shot, searching left and right for a constable to call for an ambulance. Because there was simply no way that he was too late. No way in the world that he could be—

Watson lay in the middle of the dock, water pouring down onto him. Even from a distance though, Holmes could see that his eyes were open, and he felt a surge of relief.

"Thank god!" he cried, rushing forth to kneel beside his wounded friend. "Watson, I thought you were—" his words died on his tongue as his eyes landed on the doctor's. They were blank, empty; there was no spark of life or recognition in them.

Holmes' own eyes drifted to the gunshot wound. His entire chest was dark red and hot, but there could be no mistake. The bullet had hit his heart; the chances were that he had been dead before he hit the ground.

"Oh…god…Wa—"

The back of the detective's eyes pricked painfully and in moments his vision blurred as tears fell from his eyes onto the rain-splattered cheek of the blue-eyed man's body. Without thinking, Holmes pulled the limp corpse against him, his own skin and clothing becoming smeared with blood as he sobbed uncontrollably for the first time in his life.

"Please don't leave! Watson—John! I love you! Don't leave; I beg of you don't leave me!"

As hot tears- a contrast to the freezing water that fell around them- and still more contrasting to the now-warm red blood slathering the two of them, poured from the brilliant detective's eyes, he realized with a start that it was the first time he had ever said those words.

With a cry that sounded like a wounded animal, he threw his head into the crook of Watson's neck, body convulsing with grief. When the Yard did arrive twenty minutes later, he had not moved.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

It was several months later that Holmes sat amid a pile of Watson's chronicles. The entire "Adventures of Sherlock Holmes," which the doctor had already published over time and bound together, sat in one pile. Several other cases that he was working on or holding onto until they were ready to be revealed to the public were also scattered about, not bound together like the full collection was.

The detective's dull eyes scanned over the text of the doctor's neat scrawl, remembering each moment spent on that case, each private word that they had exchanged and how casually it had put off in the texts; the public never did catch on to how blatantly Watson had written of their love life within the stories.

If only it had been there plainly. Holmes didn't care of the whole world could see it. In just one simple story, a conclusion that was not one of the detective's clever quips to the Yard, or a Latin quote about crime, but a simple "'By the way,' Holmes said to me as he took up his hat, 'I love you, Watson.'"

All those times he could have said it…

All those times he _should have…_

A single tear hit the leaf of paper he had been reading. Laughing emptily and staring out the window of the lonesome flat, he turned his gaze to the foggy, murky skies.

"I love you, you know," he whispered.

But he doubted the sound could carry up to Heaven with so many dirty clouds in the way.

_* I've heard it been said that Sherlockians chose Watson's birthday to be July 7th, the date of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's death._  
**_ Yeah, according to some Sherlockian, it was "deduced" (guessed -.-) that Holmes' birthday is January 6th.  
Sorry it was so sad! Please wipe your eyes and leave a review and/or request/suggestion! Thank you for reading! :D_


	20. Chapter 20 Gift

_A:N: Hello hello, ready for another slashy install? And I must say these tales are getting progressively higher rated. You are all OK with that? No one has said otherwise, so I assume you don't mind :) This chapter is compensation for the sad ending of the last chapter. Enjoy!_

_Huge thanks to ImaginationWalks for an amazing review and for lending my an ear as a fangirled out a tad. It means a lot, really :D_

Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc  
"After this, therefore because of this"

**Title**: Gift  
**Category**: Movieverse  
**Rating**: T+  
**Warnings**: Blatant sexual themes. Not interested, shield your eyes and run! D:

Disclaimer: No.

Gift

The familiar feeling of the mattress beneath him, the slight dip around his thighs, the soft texture of the blanket. These are all feelings Watson is accustomed to. His eyes are closed, and yet he can see the room clearly before him just as easily as if they were open. There is a pile of books under the window that faces north, some of them flipped open to random pages. Amongst them are copious amounts of loose sheets of paper, ink scribbled and blotted on them: Holmes' notes. By the table on the eastern wall of the room is the crate filled with supplies for chemical experiments including beakers, test tubes, and small glass Petri dishes containing substances the likes of which the doctor would rather not find out. And finally, there is Holmes himself. At the moment, he has stepped away from the bed and fallen completely silent, so Watson is unable to tell exactly where he is.

With the faint thud of a footfall, the great detective's intoxicating smell suddenly meets the doctor's nose (tobacco and coffee), and he is aware of the presence of the detective right in front of him.

"Can I open my eyes now?" he questions, a bit exasperated.

"No," comes the sing-song answer.

Holmes is enjoying this.

After a few more moments, he steps back again. "Alright, Watson. Open your eyes."

"Very funny Holmes," he snaps, because although the messy-haired man has stepped away, the doctor can still feel the pressure of his hands against his eyes. "Take your hands away from my eyes."

He actually jumps when hands suddenly land on his shoulders. "My hands are not on your eyes."

Now a bit tentatively, Watson obeys the original command. "…A…blindfold?"

"Part One of your gift. I am ever so glad that you brought my attention to the fact that today is our official 'one-year anniversary.' But I digress, my dear. Now then, Part Two. Care to reach out and feel what I am holding in front of your face?"

Again, Watson pauses, assessing the situation he's in: blindfolded and sitting before the genius on his very bed. "You've bound my wrists," he answers in a small voice after a minute. He is beginning to feel a bit unnerved.

"You are scintillating today, chap!"

"Holmes this is a bit ridiculous—"

Suddenly Watson becomes aware of something cool and hard pressed against his lips. "Ah ah ah, Doctor. Be kind to me on our special day."

And before Holmes can fully retract the object, the blue-eyed man flicks out his tongue, tasting leather and recognizing the slightly grooved texture of—

"Y-your riding crop."

"Part Three."

Now, however nervous as he may feel, there is absolutely no denying the fact that all these 'gifts' for their anniversary are starting to make his body heat up. His heartbeat feels erratic, his mouth dry, his fingers jerk against the cloth binding his wrists. He wants to feel the detective's skin, taste him, make him feel this way too…

And suddenly that very man's voice is breaking through his thoughts.

"Part Four is, you see, actually for me, Watson. But I trust that you'll do as I wish. You never let me down."

"What do you want me to do to you—_for_ you?" he asks, hoping the "slip" was enough to send a shiver down Holmes' spine.

The riding crop finds its way to his soft lips again, and this time, it slides easily between them, pressing against the doctor's tongue and slowly descending deeper and deeper into the back of his throat.

"You see, Watson, I was hoping that you could demonstrate some of your more—erm—sensual and _outré_ talents on my riding crop here, just to remind me what I've been missing these past few nights while I was busy with cases and you with clients. Show me."

The blue-eyed man blushes madly at this, not only at what Holmes is suggesting he do, but also the skill with which he seems certain it can be done. But unable to voice that at the present moment, he nods faintly and closes his lips around the crop, slowly pulling his head back and letting it slip out of his mouth before taking more of it in quickly. His mouth had felt dry, but he finds as little strings of saliva cling between his lips and the leather material, that this is not the case at all. He keeps it up and does his best to imagine that it _is _in fact Holmes—he lets out a low, wanton moan as the image grows particularly strong and he swirls his tongue around the crop, moving his entire head so his companion gets the full effect and needing the responding gasp he hears in his head to be real.

Not only are his cheeks stained red, but his body is positively _hot_ by the time the detective pulls it out of his mouth for good without shoving it back down the doctor's throat with a smirk Watson doesn't need to see to know that it's there.

"Very…very well done, Watson," Holmes breaths, placing the object down on the bedside table. He sounds considerably aroused, just as the doctor had hoped. "Safety word?"

"Irene," Watson gasps.

"Heh. Without even missing a beat, my dear fellow. You're delicious." The detective shoves the panting doctor flat onto the bed, and hastily follows him down.

_Hope you liked! Wanna know something? I thought of this chapter while working at the children's section of my local library. I was thinking of that episode of _Fairly Odd Parents_ where it's Timmy's parent's anniversary. Timmy's mom gets his dad roller skates, which he always wanted, and he gets her a blindfold, which she always wanted. But while handing books to innocent children, I'm thinking "damn. that woman is kinky" XD_

_True story! hope you liked! please review! and if you never saw _Fairly Odd Parents_...well. Nevermind._


	21. Chapter 21 Parting

_A/N: So guess who survived Hurricane Irene? *shudders at the dreadful name* Yes, 'twas me. Sorry this one is so short, but I'll be moving into my college campus tomorrow afternoon *heart palpitations* and begin living life as a college freshman. Needless to say, updates may take a while, but hey, we're getting towards the bottom of the barrel anyway here. Let's hope that I can make this last till the second movie, and that will provide some extra inspiration, hm? :)_

_Till then, if you have any ideas, please share. I'd love to beef this story up again really! That being said, another exploratory fix, not any real plot. Enjoy ^^_

Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc  
"After this, therefore because of this"

**Title**: Parting  
**Category**: Movieverse  
**Rating**: K  
**Warnings**: None

Parting

Disclaimer: No tengo Sherlock Holmes; Sir ACD no es generoso.

"You're leaving."

With a pang in his chest, Holmes turns to face Watson, who stares ahead at him with accusing oceanic orbs.

"Yes…" he turns, faces him fully although it hurts to do so. "I'll be back soon. You won't even notice I'm gone."

The words are formed in his mouth without cognition, falling flatly from his lips as though coagulating the second they touch oxygen.

Ever the faithful one, Watson takes in the sign in Holmes' blazing eyes in, knowing it's the end of the discussion, and he nods automatically.

"I'm sure. I wish you luck; I'll be fine here."

A bluff, a blind man explaining the acute differences between green and red.

They turn then, Holmes to the carriage and Watson back towards Baker Street.

Holmes severs himself from his shadow: the one thing he could always rely on to be at his side faithfully. Something that changed a bit as time passed, as one's shadow is prone to change shape over the course of the day, yet his own shape was always so well-maintained in that shadow at his heels.

Watson breaks off from his reflection: the person that he sees looking back at him, eyes always locked on his own. The person whose strength and weaknesses were as curious a mosaic as his own, because in so many ways that _was _him.

Their shoes echo on the pavement as they separate.

_Sorry again it was so short I was working on description again, haha. I always loved the idea of Holmes and Watson as reflections of one-another, I wanna draw a cool, haunting picture of them one day. First I should learn to draw well XD Anyway, let me know what you think, and hey, if I get on my knees and beg, will you give me ideas then? ;) Hope anyone on Eastern US fared well in the Hurricane-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named! Thanks for reading! :D_


	22. Chapter 22 Palm Reading

_A/N: SO Sorry that I haven't updated in like, a month! It's just that...hot damn, college! Which I'm loving, by the way, difficult a transition though it is. So needless to say that between the new Sherlockology fan site that has been completed for Sherlock fans (any fan of the series has to go check it out!) The rumor that Sherlock season 2 airs in January, and obviously SHERLOCK FUCKING HOLMES TWO eminent, I'm pretty excited right now, guys. About to jizz my pants, really XD Sorry that was vulgar._

_Anywhoo, this is a short but sweet one I hope you like, and thank you so much for all the reviews/favorites/story alters/etc. It means so much :D Enjoy!_

Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc  
"After this, therefore because of this"

**Title**: Palm Reading  
**Category**: Movieverse (can be book verse. I honestly forgot which intentions i had when i wrote this XD)  
**Rating**: K  
**Warnings**: None

Disclaimer: So much love...none of its mine though. Sir ACD, Guy Ritchie, RDJ, Jude Law, etc. etc.

Palm Reading

With a heavy sigh, I collapse into the hansom beside Watson, wanting nothing more than a bath and my bed. That was perhaps one of the more trying cases I have tended to in quite a while.

Though the dark, his hand instinctively grabs mine. Our fingers interlock; his are as cold as mine.

It's a long ride back to Baker Street, and both of us are weary, and I daresay slightly bored. Too drained for conversation, we simply watch the come and go of light as we pass gaslights, and the way my companion's features are briefly illuminated gives me an idea. Lifting his hand and peeling of the dark leather glove, I run my fingers over his wide, calloused palm.

Arching an eyebrow, he looks at me, silently asking why in the hell I've decided to start analyzing his metacarpals so intently.

"Palm reading," I explain with a small smile.

"You know how to do that…wait, do allow me to start from the top: you believe in that rubbish?"

"Now, now, Doctor, it is a legitimate practice that puts bread on the table, just like your medical profession does. Now observe; I am a master at the art." Something akin to indulgence alights his eyes as we pass another lamp, allowing me to revel in their beauty for a moment before I turn my attention back to his hand. With the measured resurgence and loss of light, it's a bit challenging, but to be honest I haven't the faintest idea of what I'm doing anyway.

Finding a particularly deep line, I run my finger down it, enjoying the twitch it elicits from his arm. The simple caress of the tip of my finger over such a mundane patch of skin is enough to entrance him under my spell (although I should catch myself—not a single square centimeter of Watson's flesh is in any way mundane).

"Your love line," I say succinctly.

"And you know this how?" Dubious.

"Well that's where one's love line is _always_ located, obviously. My dear chap, your cynicism is crippling. See how it runs from your thumb along towards your ring finger?"

"With this dreadful lack of light, no, I see no such thing."

"Ah, the flash of a gas light! Did you see, Watson? No? Well, too bad. It's fitting, see? You have had many a lovely lady in your day, and your love line corresponds. It is deep and unwavering; you are a lover and your heart, although it has been pledged to more than one, has always been true."

It is at this point that I become aware of some vague interest on his face. Watson knows my talents are diverse and, to the duller mind, a bit arbitrary, so I hope that I've actually earned his trust as I soothe the heel of his palm with my thumb. In truth, I'm thinking of all the times I've held this hand, watched it skillfully deliver injections of drugs to patients (myself included), apply salves, and stitch wounds with the delicacy of a spider spinning thread. I've watched that same hand nearly drench itself in splotches of ink as my faithful Boswell brilliantly and perhaps subjectively recorded the tales of my triumphs, and also allowed that hand, those elegant fingers, to dance along my body with the reverent and tender love I know he's capable of.

"_Homes_?"

Watson's voice prompts my attention, and I realize that I have been staring daftly at his hand for quite some time. "Holmes? Having trouble?" He smirks, as though he has me found out.

"No," I answer smoothly. "Just considering how brave you are judging by your life line."

"How can you deduce my bravery from it?"

I point at random to a long line that I noticed coming in from his outer hand and arching upwards towards his index finger. Various smaller, shallower little crevices seem drawn into it, as though trying to cut it off but unable to do so.

"Your many scrapes with death," I murmur somewhat fondly. "Many of them my fault, most likely."

"And yet here I sit, my dear chap," he all but coos, sensing the vague guilt in my voice and settling my fears with an intuitive tone and miniscule curve of his full lips.

Furrowing my brow, I run my finger down another deeper line, hardly even observing the shiver that the action sends up Watson's spine. It's more jagged than the other smooth lines of his pale hand, and crosses straight through the crevice I so knowledgably dubbed his love line, eventually running parallel to his life line.

Again, Watson perceives my fascination and curiosity effortlessly, and brings my own hand up to his lips.

"The Sherlock Holmes line," he speaks so succulently that I thank every star that shines above us (although they are all hidden by smog) that our hansom pulls up to 221B at that moment.

My heart swells when I see, clearly due to the fact that we've stopped right below a gaslight, my own stained, dirtied, dark hand holding his pale, strong, elegant one, the crevices that I seldom took note of before now feeling like promises carved into his flesh and holding me close.

_A/N: So, liked, disliked? Let me know :) I have a few more ideas for this story, and then I may call it quits sometimes soon, not totally sure yet. Unless you'd like to see stories continue on through the new movie? Let me now how you feel about it, and feel free to drop a suggestion in a review/private message i there's anything you'd like to see. As always, thanks for reading so far!_


	23. Chapter 23 Transient Bonds

_A/N: Heyo! And a happy Thanksgiving to everyone who celebrates it today :D I'm sorry I haven't updated in a while; I've been having some technical difficulties, but everything seems to be working now, knock on wood. So enjoy some turkey/tofurkey in moderation, and enjoy some HxW goodness! :)_

Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc  
"After this, therefore because of this"

**Title**: Transient Bonds  
**Category**: It's all up to you. I described a canon-style Holmes, but the motif of mahogany is inspired by RDJ! Holmes' eyes, so pick whichever one you prefer :)  
**Rating**: T  
**Warnings**: None

Disclaimer: Don't own!

Transient Bonds

The nearest clock tower has not yet proclaimed it eight in the morning before John Watson awakens, eyes wide and heartbeat erratic. He moistens his chapped lips and focuses on breathing deeply, imagining that he is rooted to the bed upon which he lies, slowly uprooting himself sinew by sinew. The sensation is unpleasant, removing himself from a safe and warm haven for the bustle of smoggy London streets. The most daunting obstacle of course, is simply removing himself from the bed.

Without awaking Sherlock Holmes.

Said consulting detective's arm is slung around the doctor's torso, like a vine wrapped around the trunk of a tree. Maybe it is smothering him; maybe it is supporting him. It is impossible to tell. Resigned to his fate, Watson first lifts his head, then shoulders. Next he bends his knees, creating the leverage needed to rise and shift off the bed. He wants desperately to wake and look at the man beside him, but settles on looking at the hand bent around his ribcage instead. It may as well be the hand of a corpse for its pale color and prominent bones. The doctor looks at that hand as though it is the one thing suspending him above the gaping mouth of Hell and he is about to forgo its support.

"Did you really think you'd be up before me?"

Watson jumps so violently that the hand around him suddenly grips the curve of his waist to ground him a bit.

"Holmes…"

"You cannot awaken before me if I never actually fall asleep, Watson."

He turns suddenly, and he wants to cry when his eyes fall on Holmes, wants to cry for no good reason at all except that he's there, in his sublime presence. His eyes are intense and could easily be mistaken for being menacing. Only they can't be, because Watson gazed into them last night, deceitfully menacing eyes had drilled holes through him while his body had remained impossibly gentle. Realizing that it's his turn to speak, the doctor fumbles for words, finally settling on a soft "oh."

"I understand that you must leave now though. So I think I'll sleep away my morning, what do you think?"

"Providing you don't use morphine to attain that sleep, it sounds like a plan," he responds, breaking their eye contact as flippantly as though he had accidentally caught the glance of a stranger for a brief moment. In response, Holmes turns to the mattress and buries his face into it while Watson hurriedly gathers his clothes and dresses, gnawing on the inside of his lower lip until it matches his outer lips. When he is again dressed and prim looking, a rose in a dun-colored garden with a population of several million weeds, he freezes, his feet taking root to the floor again quite against his will.

"Watson. Don't forget."

Jerking up, he turns to watch Holmes' skeletal upper body shift, arm extending out to reach the bedside table. His fingers wrap around something small and bright. Then, the same arm swings around in his direction, and without quite meaning to, Watson holds up his palm and accepts the item he had almost forgotten.

He slips the gold band onto his finger.

"Thank you." His voice shakes because there is an unbelievable contrast of colors suddenly assaulting his inner mind that has had him so on edge. This sparkling gold band, now sleeping snug on his ring finger, blasting his mind with white, the sound of wedding bells and the taste of damp, stale wood and dusty little books of hymns. And then there is the equally overwhelming color in this room, the mahogany that wraps around him and is brown and warm and red and dangerous all at once. It smells of fingers pressing into fresh earth and sounds like brazen resistance against the bright sun and all that grows beneath it. Just before he begins to have a panic attack, a surprisingly strong hand grabs his wrist and yanks him forward with commanding force. Saved from white and mahogany, Watson is suddenly looking into Holmes' eyes and feeling a bit more stable.

"I want to see you again sometime. So stop looking like you're dying."

"You want to…see me again…?" Holmes nods and removes the band from his companion's finger. There is a faint indent in his skin where it lay, because it has already begun to mark him, the rest of his body may change and grow around it, but it will not prevent him from having become a banded man. Nonetheless, Holmes kisses his ring finger. Then he kisses it again, lips molding around the skin, as though he is alright with growing around things, sees no wrong in it. Then he releases him, and nods acceptingly as the doctor puts the piece of gold back on.

"You want to see me again." Watson repeats for clarification. Because he wants to hear Holmes say it again. Hell, he'd like to hear him say it a thousand times.

"Been working on a case, Peter Tillman, laborer for the railroad. Gregson is in over his head because he just can't imagine where Mrs. Tillman could be and doesn't see how the color of the handkerchief that Tillman brought with him to work on the morning of her disappearance has any bearing on it. Today I will interview some of the other laborers and get in touch with the Baker Street Irregulars. On Tuesday I expect a telegram to arrive from Monaco. Tuesday evening, if you would like to watch me wrap of the little problem from within the comfort of my home and record the case for your annals, you are more than welcome to."

For the past eleven hours, Watson has felt that the band around his finger has been chipping away at him, hollowing him out and eating away at his organs. White and mahogany have battled in his mind's eye until he felt dizzy enough to scream. And now, the world is clear, possibly clearer than it's ever been although he can't feel his ring finger. He nods. He feels content.

"I'll be there."

And goddammit if he didn't just say I love you. Holmes is a smart man, bit smarter than the rest. He probably figured it out as he stretched out his long slender fingers, like branches of a tree, spreading wide for optimal sun exposure. And isn't there just so much to be had this morning?

_A/N: Hope you liked! (this is no favorite of mine, but it was just experimental, so I don't really care haha). At this point I'll obviously be updating through the next movie! (soooo excited! :DDD) so please drop any ideas you have till then when I'm hoping to get some more inspiration! please let me know what you want to see, and yeah, some suggestions I've already received are up-coming, I promise ;) again, happy Thanksgiving! _


	24. Chapter 24 Lamentation of the Immortal

_A/N: Hey guys! Hope everyone had a great Christmas, and Hanukkah is going great as well :D Sorry I haven't updated in a while. Please allow for a brief spastic moment:_

_OMFGYOUGUYSOMFGOMFG! Yes. Your deductions are correct. I saw _Sherlock Holmes 2: A Game of Shadows_. I absolutely loved it and am chompin' at the bit to see it a second time. For those who haven't seen it, I won't spoil anything, but you should see it and to those who have...oh wow! I agree that it was better than the first! Sorry to overwhelm you guys, but also, please read my note at the end of the story; it's important and regarding the direction these short fics will be going in. Thanks :D _

_Finally, this chapter was inspired by _The Sherlockian,_ a wonderful work of historical fiction combining the life of Arthur Conan Doyle and the modern-day function of the Sherlockians, or the Baker Street Irregulars. It's bookverse, but as always, feel free to enjoy RDJ's lovely visage :)_

Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc  
"After this, therefore because of this"

**Title**: The Lamentation of the Immortal  
**Category**: Bookverse  
**Rating**: K+  
**Warnings**: Dark themes

Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes of Arthur Conan Doyle, or the ideas of Alexander Grahm's amazing _The Sherlockian_

The Lamentation of the Immortal

(Inspired by Alexander Grahm's _The __Sherlockian_)

Sherlock Holmes was distinctly aware of the sensation of grey slowing creeping into his blood. Try thought he might, he could not fight it off. It was as though the heat generated by his mind, that orange, glowing fire-like heat, was dying like old coals in an ash pit. The ice had stolen over his brain already, retarded its workings until it was so sluggish that he was aware of each tendril of colorless chill as it grasped at his mind and dulled him, conquered him.

He was boneless, a languidly-moving pile of smoke and tweed and deerskin that was unable to escape the cool frost in his chest.

And wasn't the world changing as well?

It was becoming less vivid. Less clearly-defined and crisp and colorful and harmonious. The lines between buildings and the sky itself blurred into a smog-colored cloud, and the grass seemed to die before him and swirl like pools of stagnated water. As his London sky-colored eyes drifted hither and thither at the speed of melting snow, he shifted in the four-wheeler in which he sat and bit his lip.

He could not feel his body when he moved.

His arms, his legs, everything was numb, like when he had overdosed on morphine that one dreadful time. He wanted to call out for help, but it occurred to him that perhaps his vocal cords were numb as well. If he screamed, would it just be a barbaric garbble? A disgusting guttural choke of death? Or would he simply be unable to make any noise at all? Holmes was a dignified man; it was not a risk he would take, so his unfeeling mouth remained closed.

It was all so empty. Hard to believe that there had ever been a rush of adrenaline, clear lines and bright distinctions, a flushing heat in his cheeks from his brain that was so fast, so brilliant, so loaded! But it had dried up like a well, hadn't it? Oh, how there had been an undertone of fear in those final didactic disserations to the Yard because subconsciously, he had known, _oh_, he had known! Once, heart pounding, hands dancing and soaring like great white birds, tethered down to his torso, he gave those final explanations, solved the case, enlightened and inspired and fed like a leech off of the admiration in their eyes, their applause; he had known it would all come to this.

This nothing.

So idle was he, a hollow shell, wishing another case would present itself as he raced back to London in his four-wheeler, with nothing left to analyze.

It was becoming hard to breathe, what with the cold ice pushing into his lungs so his very blood ran grey as well. Staring into the colorless, empty sky (hell, it could be nonexistent for all he knew! Just a gaping hole above his head!) he wondered if it would be worth it to keep on living until another case arose, to sit in this empty aftermath of genius, of brilliance. It seemed too painful, too horrible. He would sooner drop off and cease to exist…there was always the seven percent solution, but if he couldn't feel the needle in his arm, what would he feel? So was it death, then? To be or not to be? There would always be lax periods…always had been. Could he really continue to live, bloodthirsty for the next period of excitement and comatose prior to their existence? No, it was too sad, a perennial flower that bloomed beautifully in the spring and would dry up in summer and wilt till spring again. Holmes would not wilt.

But the mere action of doing anything to lodge himself from his stupor seemed a task too gargantuan for him to take on. In all honesty, Holmes was feeling too cold and grey and numb to even care enough about the fact that he was feeling cold and grey and numb.

And then there was that annoying burning beginning in his arm.  
Wait.

Forearm. Tingling. Warm…

His head snapped with energy he didn't know he had and his eyes fell on the gentle face of Watson, who was somehow maintaining his autonomy in the swirling, blurring mud and grey colored world.

"You were brilliant, Holmes." He informed. And his voice was actually registering, which was a minor miracle. "When you go on like that…your own form of self-expression, that is—when you explain it, step-by-step, how simple it is—"

Ugh. Watson's voice trembled into the emptiness a bit at that.

"You simply…you simply…_scintillate_!"

"Mngh." Holmes found with a whisper of pleasure in a symphony of terrors that he did indeed have a voice still. He turned fully, flexing the muscles of his forearm against the tight, excited grip of John Watson's hand, and it was like touching a hot stove and he absolutely loved—needed—this sensation. He looked at his friend, really looked at him, and saw him clearly, the way one's eyes focus perhaps once every few months and the world seems carved out by an extra fine-tipped pen. He could see distinctly the sharp lines of Watson's handsome face, each hair on his moustache, the unique halo-color of his hair and his engrossing eye-color. Not just blue or even dark blue. It was somewhere between indigo and sapphire and it was _divine_.

"Th-thank you."

"No, thank _you_ for always allowing me to accompany you," he bubbled. "Oh, Holmes, you hardly know what it means to me to be able to watch you…" his features softened further. He was gossamer, Watson was, "I love it."

It hurt, but he was beginning to melt. Color, smell, everything was returning, and the cold receding. He blinked his still-grey-colored eyes at the doctor, and suddenly leaned into him, relishing in the sensation of living. Yes.

He would live.

"I love having you at my side, Watson."

And he meant it, loud and blessedly clear.

_A/N: So let me know what you think, hopefully someone out there read the book and understands the feel :)_

_Anyway, a few things, one, someone anonymously reviewed a few times (yes, I finally saw the movie, whoever you are, and I understand your sentiment!) and left a request. I'm still taking those, guys, so don't hesitate to tell me ideas!_

_So thank you for both your reviews and your ideas, anonymous, and I've written the idea you suggested; I have two stories to go, then yours :D Speaking of those two stores, ATTENTION EVERYONE: After a few more stories, I want to start writing for the second movie since I've seen it and it's inspired me. I don't, however, want to ruin it for those who haven't seen it yet, or make this collection exclusively for those who have seen the second. I'll put a warning on stories that contain spoilers for SH2, but please let me know your opinion...is it OK with you that I move forward? Thanks for your feedback, have a great holiday and a wonderful new year! See you all again soon :3_


	25. Chapter 25 Pensive

_A/N: AND A VERY HAPPY 158th BIRTHDAY TO MR. SHERLOCK HOLMES! So wootwoot to that ;) Anyway, thanks for all the reviews; I feel as though the fandome has exploded since the second movie came out, so thanks for being so great and giving me so much feedback to make these shorts as good as possible! Onward!_

__Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc  
"After this, therefore because of this"

**Title**: Pensive  
**Category**: Bookverse  
**Rating**: T+  
**Warnings**: Sexual themes! O.O

Disclaimer: Tried to steal it in the dead of night, but Sherlock Holmes continues to be not mine! Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, folks.

Pensive

Sherlock Holmes, dressed to the nines in comfort, languidity, and little else, was resting pleasantly and musing upon the make-up of the world in one of his favorite places to be: draped across his mattress, limp white sheets tangled around him, with mid-morning sunlight streaming in and casting a hallow glow upon the dresser and the foot of the bed.

His head, of course, was rested upon his personal heated pillow, better known as Watson.

Here he could spend his morning hours silentsly reviewing details of cases or of chemical experiments without interruption. He could also contemplate ethics, morals, beekeeping, or, as he often opted, simply meditated on his own happiness and the steady rise and fall of Watson's chest with his each breath. Ear pressed above the doctor's heart, he also spent time composing music for his fiddle using the cadence of said heart as a metronome.

Unfortunately, this morning, his heated pillow had morphed into a heated, talking pillow.

"Holmes."

Watson's voice was faintly hoarse, like a window with frost over it, or a blade that has given way to rust. In this case, the Sandman's grains clogged his throat.

"Mm," the consulting detective hardly sounded any better. He was lost to articulation.

"Have you ever though of having children?"

The idea of talking annoyed him, so he smirked against the physician's sternum and answered, "Have—or rather—had _you_? I never got that impression"

Watson's prominent knuckles rubbed into Holmes' temples and mussed his hair further.

"How rude."

"How arbitrary."

The blond shifted his head, so, grumbling, Holmes lifted his own from his chest to meet his gaze.

"I was just wondering, because you're so brilliant. You and Mr. Mycroft both. Your parents must have been geniuses as well."

"Perhaps," he skirted the discussion lazily in tone, but he leaned down to lay atop the doctor until their foreheads touched. Holmes' colorless eyes veened down with an unearthly glow like two glass orbs, totally unyielding.

The doctor flinched under the gaze. "Alright. You don't want to discuss them. I respect that."

"Good,"

He closed his eyes, perfectly comfortable lying flush against the physician, and ready to return to personal meditation.  
"It's just—" _Ugh._ "God, your children would be brilliant." Holmes eyes open again. "Think of all the good they would do for the world."

"No. Prodigy in progeny leads to corruption." The consulting detective dissented.

"Oh?"

"Look at Professor Moriarty. Generations of selective breeding that incarnidined his bloodline."

Empathetic sapphire pools darkened, and the dark-haired man could see his reflection in them, beckoning him to delve down and immerse himself in the tepid waters of Watson's soul. It was tempting.

"Sorry then. I was just curious."

"Don't be. And I'm sorry too, for the vulgar sarcasm before."

They sat in silence for another moment, though at this point Holmes didn't trust it.

"I wonder, though, could you breed anything evil, Holmes?"

"Easily, my dear," he rejoined.

"Certainly ingenuity, but could cold blood morph from your own?"

Kissing the blond's brow, he smiled faintly. "It depends on who I am sharing genes with. If I bred with you, for example, that would hardly be a concern."

Those painful knuckles found his scalp again. "You're full of cruelty on this morn," he complained, insulted.

In response, he chuckled and slung an arm around his companion's frail shoulders. "You misunderstood me," he informed him. "I speak not of intellect, but of virtue. Were we able to have children, I mean to say that unlike with the Professor, there would be no danger of a seed of evil being planted in it. Rather, the posterity would be invariably good."

He hadn't intended to sound quite so convictive by the end of the impromptu monologue, and judging from the wide blue eyes gazing at him, Watson had not anticipated it.

"Holmes…"

"Watson, may I ask you something now?"

"Of course!"

"Would you please stop talking?" He queried with a polite grin.

Affronted, but then bemused, the doctor nodded and dropped back down among the pillows, permitting the dark-haired man to reclaim his spot upon his blissfully silent, heated pillow.

_So there we go :) I was pretty happy with this story, and found it fitting for Holmes' bday. It was possibly the only positive thing that came out of being in study hall senior year of high school XD In case it wasn't clear, the "vulgar sarcasm" is Holmes suggesting that Watson has had illegitimate children before, or failed to "think" about having children. We all know what a ladies' man he tends to be, regardless of his affair with Holmes ;)_

_One more short story after this, then we dive into stories based off of the second movie, promise. Be there or be rectangular! And don't forget to have some honey to celebrate our favorite sleuth's big day!_


	26. Chapter 26 Holier Than Angels

_A/N: Okay, I know I said I had stuff to post before this, but after seeing the movie a second time, I just had to post something movie-based! So this is because my bestie cried during the wedding scene...just because Holmes' face is so so sad! . Anyway, this is also my last post before I return to college, so forgive typos...I'm not ashamed to admit that I didn't proof-read this because I'm bonding with my family before I leave XD So enjoy, let me know if I've made mistakes, and let me know what you think! :D_

Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc  
"After this, therefore because of this"

**Title**: Holier than Angels  
**Category**: Movieverse  
**Rating**: T  
**Warnings**: None

Holier than Angels

He was aware that he should be happy; it would be selfish to be anything else.

Despite the overall destructive fiasco of the previous night (a night that he was well aware should have been a pleasant occasion for his friend…a celebration, an evening of brotherly bonding…really anything that didn't involve acrobatic assassins, gypsy women with brothers connected to criminal masterminds, and binge-drinking and gambling), indeed despite it all, Watson looked overjoyed. Albeit a tad hung-over still, but truly happy.

And Holmes should be as well, he knew.

After all, Watson was marrying the woman of his dreams, his soul mate, his lover…the word and its various associations, synonyms, and implications all enough to make him shudder. But one look at the way those sapphire-like eyes sparkled as he walked with her, the tenderness that rested in the crows feet that formed when he smiled _that_ _smile_, all conveyed one thing: he was solidifying a new era in his life. Without Holmes. With Mary.

The day was surprisingly beautiful, as though God himself wanted this event to be auspicious. He approved, no doubt, Holmes thought to himself bitterly. It was really too bad that he couldn't focus on his disheveled but beautiful groom and his glowing white bride; his vision was hazy, his mind in the past. Watson, screaming his name as the entire wharf blew up when they were solving the case regarding Blackwood. Watson, following him curiously when they pursued their "Study in Scarlet", all questions and wonder, bless the creature. Watson, avidly recording the "Scandal in Bohemia," intermittently muttering under his breath in disbelief, "she outsmarted you, Holmes. _You_!"

With a slight shake of his head, the great sleuth drew himself out of his reveries, plunging himself into the present as one might a bath of ice water. Linking arms, the lovely couple was making its way in his direction around the church. Watson's eyes rose and met his, and Holmes' heart stopped for a moment.

The warmth and happiness was still there, but for a brief instant, the doctor's face was understanding. His mouth didn't move; his eyes did. He understood.

_Ah, Watson._

_I am madly in love with you. You realize that now, don't you? I've been against your marriage from the start for selfish reasons, but if only you could have known sooner how much you meant to me. I live for you, and I scarcely know how I will continue to live without you in my life. This—this 'matrimony' is so holy, is it not? I sometimes wonder why God declared love between a man and a woman so acceptable, but love between two men to be an abomination. For my love transcends any other I've ever witnessed, my dear, dear man. Mine is holier than all of the angels up in Heaven…_

And some such nonsense, he was sure he was conveying as he looked back at his friend pathetically. So he chose that moment to break the stare with his friend and turn at that instant, walking aimlessly through the bushes (_rosa Caninae, _he noted blandly) that decorated the property and distancing himself from the church, something that had felt comforting to him for years.

He was glad that Watson had found happiness. With tensions between him and the Professor coming to a head, he was relieved to know that he could consider his chronicler out of the picture—and consequently, harm's way. And given that the goal of the average man was indeed to find a wife and raise a family, Holmes figured he was pretty satisfied that his closest friend had accomplished just that.

But, as selfish as it made him, he was not happy.

Dammit if he didn't want Watson to disengage himself from sweet Mary at that very instant and join him in his stroll around the premises. Never mind the wedding, he thought, they could gather up Mrs. Hudson and Gladstone and return to 221B like nothing had ever happened. Life would be unchanging and perfect.

But that was not going to happen. He would continue walking away, chest heavy, stomach churning, mind buzzing. Watson would continue to walk with Mary, smile in place, passing surreptitious glances back to see if Holmes had really just left the wedding completely (he had not; being a best man meant he still had tasks to carry out which even he would not skirt).

He had been receiving looks from the slim man with the long nose and cold eyes for a while. There could be no doubt that he was an emissary of the Professor's with a message to pass on. Making his way over to talk with the devil's minion, he cast a final glance over his shoulder at Watson.

A faintly sick feeling was settling somewhere in the base of his stomach. He truly was a selfish man.

_Sooo...you liked? As I said, let me know where it needs improvements. And thanks to all who review and favorite/story alert, etc. But to those latter individuals...don't forget to review too! ;) Anyway, thanks for reading!_


	27. Chapter 27 Moustache

_A/N: Ahhhhhh, I haven't updated in like a bajillion years! Sorry, this semester is wild! Haha, so is the second movie on DVD yet? My friend has been frantically searching for a release date, and found nothing. O_O Srsly guise, guise srsly, I'm on RDJ withdrawal!_

_So anyway, this was a prompt from Anonymous; I hope this is what you wanted. It has references to the second movie, but no real spoilers. Enjoy :)_

Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc  
"After this, therefore because of this"

**Title**: Moustache  
**Category**: Movieverse  
**Rating**: T+  
**Warnings**: Just lots of strong Holmes/Watson goodness. Younger, innocent readers are advised ;P

Disclaimer: No.

Moustache

He had laughed at the time.

It was not a funny matter; Lady Dolly was going to be dead within the hour if they did not move fast, the French merchant Losque would be escaping for South America soon and he had hopes to cut him off, and of course, there was the fact that the butler, Elliot, was trying to slit Watson's jugular.

Only he missed, Watson jerked his head to the side, and the knife grazed over his face, dangerously close to carving off his upper lip. But it did not. It did, however, manage to slice off half of his moustache.

Holmes and Watson moved like lightening, Holmes to the rescue, Watson on the defense. _Swift kick to ankles to throw off balance. Punch to elbow—_Watson slammed his pistol over Elliot's face—_secure his wrists; final blow to chest to knock wind out of him._

Panting, they rose and brushed their jackets off nonchalantly, looking at the unconscious butler, then at each other. Watson looked at Holmes. Holmes looked at Watson. And he burst out laughing. Because half of his well-groomed moustache was no more. There was some blood, but not much. But mostly, there was just a lack of facial hair, and it looked _hilarious._

Later, he was composed again. Lady Dolly was safe, Detective Inspector Hopkins had intercepted Losque with the assistance of several constables, and his good doctor was locked in the small, cluttered loo of their flat, refusing to emerge.

"Surely it doesn't take you all day to shave," Holmes commented blandly, knocking loudly on the door as he walked by, violin bow in tow. Around a half hour later, he walked by again, this time with a beaker of sulfuric acid in his hand. "Really now, let's not be vain, my dear boy," he called, fingers again rapping on the solid pine of the door.

A full hour later, he was feeling bored and needy, and thus stomped impetuously to the door yet again.

"Watson." No answer. "Come now, are you feeling that your manhood has been wounded? Do relax, I'm sure you're fine." Still, no response.

Feeling the faintest tremor of concern, his brilliant mind began to race far too irrationally. What if he had cut his lip and bled out?_ Highly unlikely. _He could have become so overwhelmed by the loss of facial hair that he fainted and hit his head on the countertop. _Let's get it together then, Holmes._ He tried to open the door—and was surprised to find it unlocked. Increasingly surprising was the fact that the loo was empty. "Watson?"

After another bought of utterly spastic concern on the consulting detective's part, he had the logical reasoning to search for the doctor in his office. Sure enough, he sat there at his desk, one hand supporting his head, long elegant fingers splayed out to cover the bare expanse between his nose and upper lip. He glanced up at his companion without lifting his head, apparently in no mood to bare his new 'haircut' to anyone.

"How long have you been in here? I had begun to think you had slit your wrists in a melodramatic episode in the loo." Holmes stated indignantly.

"I've no patience for you right now, Holmes," came the curt reply, and he again fell to his work. "Had it not been for your provoking of Elliot, he would not have come at me."

"Well I certainly did not anticipate that he would go for _you_—"

"Thus leaving him open for attack? Ah, I know you too well. And don't lie to me. So please, Holmes. I've had this since I was a teenager; you can only imagine how annoying it is to have to grow it back suddenly. I look like a pre-pubescent lad all over again."

"Now, now," the brown-eyed man kicked at the corner of the rug, faint sensations of guilt tugging somewhere within his chest. "You know I wouldn't have let him hurt you."

"You _laughed_."

If one thing was clear, it was that the doctor was absolutely furious. For a moment, the brilliant man teetered precariously in the doorway, uncertain whether to push forth and try to cheer his friend up, or to flee while he had the chance lest he incur the wrath of Doctor Watson.

Opting for the latter, he busied himself with developing some 'urban camouflage' for the rest of the afternoon.

At dinner, Watson was equally as morose, his dark blue eyes a sulky indigo. Holmes would have given anything to see the beautiful pout that was no doubt there, but he kept one hand fisted and resting lightly over his upper lip, even while he ate.

"At this rate, I presume you will be sleeping with a handkerchief tied over your mouth?" Holmes supposed around a mouthful of beef.

Watson's knife came down rather violently over a piece of potato, his eyes shone murderously, and Holmes could swear that his life flashed before his eyes. His touch for the overdramatic was, in Holmes view, unparalleled. "Well…anyway, I wish you would let me see. You really intend to hide from the world until it grows back? How long will that take, chap, over a week, no doubt. So I promise I won't laugh at you."

"Your promises are comical to me."

Wincing, he placed his fork and knife down, threw off his napkin, and crossed the table. "Truly, Watson? Do you really think that I regard you as no more than a comic relief in my life? You're my friend; I've seen you on days when you could hardly walk due to your knee, and on days where you were plagued by fever and memories of the war. Conversely, you've seen me with broken knuckles, a face swollen to twice its normal size by chemical experimentation, and you've stitched my spleen back together as I lay there dying in the dead of winter in that one case with the diamond earring. Do you think I care that you haven't your moustache?"

Still, he didn't dare touch the doctor's hand. Watson was incredibly unpredictable at times, and he might either soften up, or swing at his friend at any second. After a pensive moment, he lowered his fist from his mouth, baring his temporary visage to his companion with a look of trepidation and vague defiance.

Suddenly, the consulting detective's breath hitched in his throat. His dark eyes beheld Watson and froze there, entranced. His faintly apprehensive eyes, his ever-mussed hair, his clefted chin, high cheekbones, and those full pink lips. No doubt, Holmes had never felt that there was a man in London—in the entire world, really—who could compare to Watson where looks were concerned. But with the manly, mature moustache shaved off of his face, he looked…scarcely older than a boy.

He was positively beautiful.

"Why…why…" he couldn't speak, and it was not assuring to his friend. The doctor frowned, eyes widening in hurt and light color darkening his cheeks. "You're…oh, John…" Unable to resist any longer, he leaned down and kissed his biographer hungrily, roughly. "Never grow it back, hm?"

And out of nowhere, there was that swing he had been weary of earlier.

The evening continued in that fashion, and the dark-haired man could not deny the humorous aspect of it. He would advance towards the doctor, ravenous for a taste of that smooth mouth, and Watson would in turn throw him off, punch him, or kick him (whichever their positions allowed for).

Finally, sick of the various bruises beginning to form all over his body, he groaned and pulled away from another attempt to jump the doctor and kiss him into submission.

"I don't see why you won't let me touch you," he snapped. "You look beautiful this way, Watson. So awe-inspiringly beautiful."  
"No, I look like a young boy," he corrected scornfully. "Yet I am not. I wish to be taken seriously, treated like a man. That's why I'm far from happy with this whole little episode and would very much love it if you would kindly leave me be until I'm me again."

_One last attempt_, the shorter man figured._ For the hell of it. Try to use romance to win his heart_.

"You are always you, you fool," he responded coolly, stepping up beside his friend and gripping his hand. "I love you for you; that won't ever change. Just because your face changes doesn't mean I'll take you less seriously."

That unfalteringly sentimental heart gave in, and Watson smiled, touched. He lowered his head down to kiss Holmes softly, and the consulting detective gladly reciprocated.

Within moments, the chaste kiss had evolved into something a bit more feral, and they were stumbling into the bedroom. Watson whimpered faintly as Holmes drew his upper lip into his mouth, caressing it with his tongue and sucking it lightly. He savored the sweet taste, the texture of the little dip right below his nose; he tasted divine. Arching up and brushing his entire upper body against his lover's, the physician gasped.

"You're ardent tonight."

"Really? I feel this way about you every second of my life, _mon_ _cher_," he answered with a husky breath.

"Hnn…"

The evening commenced spectacularly, and Holmes could not recall a more passionate night. There was simply nothing on earth more attractive than seeing his companion writhe beneath him, looking (and, perhaps it was just his imagination, _feeling_) like a virgin. They finally settled down sometime before sunrise, the consulting detective licking his doctor's upper lip one last time before he fell asleep.

Alright. Watson was an honest gentlemen, and in all honesty, Holmes had been particularly brilliant that night. Not to say that their usual lovemaking was in any way lacking, but something had changed in the consulting detective's countenance last night; it was like he was taking him for the first time all over again. Almost like he was loving someone else. While the sensation had been arousing at the time, it left a sour taste in his mouth, and when he awoke, he calmly detached himself from his lover's arms and rushed to the bathroom to see how his new moustache was coming in. The skin was only faintly stubbly.

"It's going to be a very long week."

"Oh Jo~ohn. Come back to bed."

He could hear the desire in his companion's voice.

"Oh, bugger."

The following days were, as the good doctor had anticipated, filled with sex. It was as though looking like a teenager had given the shorter man the stamina of one, and he could hardly keep his hands off the doctor when he was home with him. Torn between enjoying it and sinking into self-doubt, Watson could only hold on as he was bent over the kitchen table, pressed up against the wall, pinned down upon the tiger skin rug, and ravished like a newlywed bride by a hot-blooded Holmes.

Surely justice in London plummeted that week, for the great mind did not venture out on cases, not when he had a lovely biographer to shag. Copiously.

Finally, after about five days, the blue-eyed man was thrilled to see that his facial hair had grown back almost completely. He lay in bed, facing Holmes with nervous agitation, finally kissing his nose tentatively as he began to show signs of waking up. The kiss tickled the shorter man, who smiled and opened his bottomless mahogany orbs.

"Ah, Watson. Looking incorrigibly handsome this morning, as usual. It really ought to be against some sort of law, how badly you make me want you."

"Truly?" he asked, smile already overtaking his features. "Do you mean those incredibly lewd and uncreative things you say, my dear Holmes?"

Pulling his friend into a sleepy hug, he chuckled. "Did you really think that you would disappoint me by growing your moustache back, Watson? It suits you; you do realize I love you however you look, don't you? Even if, god forbid, your face had been irreversibly marred by Elliot's blade, I would still adore you and find you gorgeous."

"Oh…" touched, he rolled atop the dark-haired man, pinning him down and kissing him tenderly. "I don't know why I ever worried."

"Nor do I my d-dear Wats_ooooh_…"

Holmes lost his train of thought just then as the doctor's lips sought his neck. They did not roll out of bed until nearly noon, and once the doctor was descending the stairs for work, calling promises to be home by seven over his shoulder, spirits refreshed and eyes alight, Holmes was lighting his pipe with a pout. He was going to miss that clean-shaven face.

With a smirk, Sherlock Holmes began to plan all sorts of "accidents" that might befall his companion's face. In perfectly safe manners, of course…perhaps acid, or blades, or a flame, coming just close enough to singe that moustache a bit…

_Ah, I hope Holmes didn't come across as too nefarious; he is partially sincere with some of the things he says, I swear XD And I mentioned Watson having had a 'stache since his teen years because I read in a (granted, fictional, but most likely historically accurate) book that Doyle had his mustache since he was around 16. Since Watson is basically Doyle's way of vicariously making himself Holmes' bitch, I figured that could work X)_

_So yeah, please give me more ideas for SH2 shorts, yes? :D Yes! Please let me know what you think; thanks so much for reading!_


	28. Chapter 28 The Kettle

_A/N: Whoa. Where the hell have I been? D: Sorry guys, the school year is wrapping up and things are INSANE. But I just have to post because _BBC Sherlock_ season two airs in the US tomorrow night! :D And _Sherlock Holmes 2_ is FINALLY being released on DVD on June 12! So just a quickie, more canon-verse than movie-verse, but as ever, use your imaginations :) _

_Also, I realize that quite a few requests have come in which I've neglected since my updates are becoming sparse. For example, Darkness-is-Nameless, I assure you that sometime soon I'd like to work with your plot bunny. Maybe to harken a _SH3_? ;) Anywhoo, I won't hold you up anymore; enjoy! O3O_

Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc  
"After this, therefore because of this"

**Title**: The Kettle  
**Category**: Bookverse  
**Rating**: K+  
**Warnings**: None

The Kettle

There are so many aspects of Watson that Holmes loves to observe, that he feeds off of. Watching the doctor rush around to tidy the house when company is expected, or the way he refills his vials of pills, herbs and oils when they become low with such care and then replaces them lovingly in his Gladstone bag for the patients who will need them, or the way he smiles when Lestrade introduces him to a new client; like he'd offer the sun to the total stranger if he or she only asked. Although the last instance makes him a bit jealous, Holmes loves the doctor for each and every idiosyncrasy.

He can't explain it, but in his own, foolish eyes, Watson literally scintillates at times. He becomes so bright and energetic, so brimming with kindness and so conductive of warmth until it spreads into Holmes' own heart and he can feel it all radiating into him. The only problem with such quirks, of course, is the fear that as those aspects of Watson's great heart unwittingly seduce Holmes, and as they both consciously move towards a rather illegal regard for one another, Holmes may change Watson.

He abhors this idea.

The notion of darkening the doctor so he no longer glows golden and appears fractions of a second away from ascending up into Heaven is too much, but one day discussing it becomes unavoidable as they dance along the line separating Perfectly Acceptable to Not Acceptable (less formally known as Inverted).

"I don't see why my opinion of Ovid matters much to you, chap."

"Ah, well. Keep your lips sealed then. I like to think that one day I might hear your deepest opinions on art yet—preferably over something better than cheap port."

"You always speak in the long term, Watson," Holmes comments idly. If he were a cat, Holmes thinks, Watson's ears would have pricked just now.

"Of course, Holmes. You and I…well, don't think of it; never mind."

"It'd really be for the better if we didn't go there. We shant live together always, of course."

"And why not?" he wants to know, frowning. To Holmes, this sight is the equivalent of drowning a small animal by hand. Or maybe an infant.

"Really, now, do you think I'm any good for you? Surely you don't think you can leech off of me forever?" he snaps coldly to knock the doctor off this path.

"Isn't that the pot calling the kettle black?" Watson accuses acerbically, anger masking deep hurt. "How frequently do you use me to perpetuate your own self-interest?"

"Pot, kettle, _that's_ _it_, don't you see? I don't mean to hurt you!" suddenly Holmes thinks he's the one drowning. "Why is the kettle so black, Watson? Was it not once new and bright? But overuse by its purchaser to heat tea for sordid little parties and every smoggy, bleak morning, and whenever the purchaser fancied a cheap cup of Earl Grey turned it black. I'll do that to you! You let me, and I'll use you till you're worn!"

And in truth, the threat makes him sick. Blocking off Watson till he can't shine like he's made of halos and gold statues and dew drops when dawn reflects upon them. All because of him.

"You would do that?" Watson asks, interrupting his thoughts. His blue eyes are wide. And then they begin to sparkle as though there are stars caught in them, a feat Holmes would put past anyone except for his Boswell. "You would use me…till I was well-worn, much-loved as a quaint old tea kettle?" and he's grinning like he's touched by this.

Suddenly Holmes sees why he so adores watching Watson. He interprets things one way, and his companion can see the same thing so differently, so brightly. It's beautiful.

And Holmes forgets why he was worrying so much.

Because somehow he seems to only enhance his beloved friend's brilliance.

_Shmeh. Not overly happy with this one, but the idea was there at the time. I've got some other things brewing for you, worry not. _

_ALSO, has anyone out there ever read _Kissing Sherlock Holmes_? You can download the pdf for free online; it's a Sherlock Holmes novel based on the concept of Holmes and Watson actually becoming a couple. I read the whole thing in three days (despite four essays to write and finals to study for and portfolios to assemble...), and I still can't tell how I felt about it. The author's ability to capture Watson's voice was better than most stories I've read, up there with _Dust and Shadow_, and I loved the relationship blossoming between the two, but...dunno. Please, let me know how you feel if you've read it, I can't get it off my mind, and I won't until I get a clear interpretation of it out there! XD _

_Thanks, please let me know what you think!_


	29. Chapter 29 Terror

_A/N: Welly well well. It has been QUITE a while. My intense apologies to everyone. Would you believe me if I told you that I had originally hoped to post this on the day _Sherlock Holmes 2_ came out on DVD? Haha, it's funny. So I actually don't own the DVD yet, but my lovely buddy, the Holmesu-kun to my Wats-chan has leant it to me so I can revel in RDJ goodness XD Again, I'm sorry it's been so long coming. Summer jobs, 10,000 words into a story I'm writing (not fan fiction? _WHAT_?), and spending days glued to my best friend have been less than conducive to fan fiction writing. But I'll try and get some more stories out and finally tackle those requests you've been thrown' at me :D Enjoy!_

__Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc  
"After this, therefore because of this"

**Title**: Terror  
**Category**: Moiveverse  
**Rating**: T  
**Warnings**: Violence, movie spoilers, et. cetera. If you haven't seen Sherlock Holmes 2, feel ashamed and skip this chappie :P

Disclaimer: Blah blah, not mine, Sir ACD, RDJude, I mean RDJ and Jude Law, Guy Ritchie, yeah.

Terror

He had him.

Thrashing fruitlessly, Holmes struggled against too many powerful arms, against chloroform…he was going under…he was going to die. Those eyes, cold and calculating and merciless were mocking him. In icy cold blackness, he could feel apprehension overtaking his mind, his heart hammering so quickly in his chest that it _hurt_, and still he knew there was nothing he could do to get away.

_I have one final question for you. Which one of us is the fishermen… and which one the trout?_

_AAAAHHHH_! A pain he had never known could exist tore through his shoulder as he was hoisted off of his feet. Dangling helplessly like a fish from a hook, he struggled in desperation to alleviate the pain as a thick metal hook pierced deeper and deeper into his shoulder, threatening to protrude out the other side. _AAAHH_, _AAAHH_! Screaming was all that was left to do, screaming, writhing, suffering. He would be dying soon too, no doubt. As soon as he was done paying dearly for his meddling.

"Holmes! Holmes, please, _wake_ _up_!"

Deep chocolate orbs shot open, pupils blown wide until the brown was a barely-perceptible ring around them. They met with equally-wide cerulean eyes.

"Watson!"

There was nothing he could do; Sherlock Holmes could feel the tears spilling down his face as he trembled. "I can _feel_ it," he managed to gasp out, all but ripping his friend's shirt open in an attempt to draw him closer.

"Shhh, shhh." Soothingly, the doctor brushed his sweaty hair out of his face and then began massaging tense shoulders, right above where the metal hook had pierced him. "You're safe. I'm here now, see? Oh, Holmes. Trust me, you're safe. Shh, now, now."

Holmes continued to whimper like a frightened child, Moriarty's smirking face still in his mind's eye although he slowly began to settle down as Watson's nimble fingers worked over his wound so gently that the imagined pain receded and both shoulders fell back, his chest open and exposed for only his dear doctor, who still cooed sweet nothings as he tried to make his friend settle.

"I'm here to protect you. No one is going to hurt you," he breathed.

"Watson…" the tears stopped, but the gasping breaths did not.

All of London suddenly decided to fall eerily still, and the silence hung so heavily that it threatened to crush both men with the jagged sounds of the consulting detective's labored breathing as the only contrast to it. Watson would not be deterred by the stillness though. He continued to run steady hands through his friend's hair and hold him close, his body anchoring the panicked man to the bed firmly, giving him the unquestionable sensation of being somewhat stable and certainly awake and safe.

The nightmare continued to weave through his skull, images flashing through his razor sharp mind as it whirled, shadow pains making his shoulder twitch as though it was about to be dislodged from its socket. Finally, finally, he began to calm down.

"Shhh, it's all right, Holmes. Hush, hush, Holmes. Sherlock. I'm here."

The tender litany of assurances continued to spill forth from the doctor's mouth quietly, and finally his friend shifted in his arms, signaling that he wanted to make eye contact. Watson allowed for this, hands not leaving the smaller man, black-with-blue eyes meeting black-with-brown in gentle patience.

"I…I…I'm sorry, old sport," Holmes began, attempting to raise his eyebrows and take on his usual aloof look.

"Don't," the light-haired man warned sternly, but not without a touch of fondness. "Go be a fearless ruffian in the morning. Right now, settle down. It was another dream."

A nervous nod.

"About Moriarty."

Slightly more animated.

"When he tortured you."

Narrowed eyes. "But you rescued me. You always fail to mention that part when you recite my nightmares, Watson. Just as you do when you wake me up, you came to my aid."

The doctor looked down at his friend, who had, in all fairness, recovered from his wounds beautifully in a way only the stubborn Sherlock Holmes could. But still, his forehead creased slightly as his brows drew together. No. He did not "rescue" Holmes at all. It took him far too long to get to his aid that night, and every time the screams came on months later, he failed to vanquish them for good. He was a decent friend, sure. Not one capable of rescuing though. Just as an amateur doctor only ever delivers pain relievers and administers drugs to alleviate symptoms without tackling the cause of said problems, he could only ever soothe Holmes for the rest of a single night.

Attempting to smooth his friend's crinkled brow by pressing on it with a calloused thumb, Holmes peered up at him. "Stop looking at me like you don't believe me," he ordered in a raspy baritone.

"I don't," he whispered, leaning down to rest his head in the crook of Holmes' neck and running his fingers softly through silken curls.

"I'm alive thanks to you. What more do you want? You know that…that _situation_ was a necessary evil. I needed to attain Professor Moriarty's book."

"Yes, Holmes."

"And you managed to save my life and get us on our way,"

"Yes, Holmes."

"And my dreams are to be expected, purely psychological. You can't help it, neither can I."

"Yes, Holmes."

"Watson. Listen to me."

Blue, brown, brown, blue.

"How can I look at you screaming and not feel guilt? I want you to sleep through the night without remembering," he answered in the tone of a desperate man. Holmes' brilliant mind clouded with concern at the psychological strain that still rested on his companion as well, aware only time could heal it. But Watson couldn't grasp this; it proved that his axiom, nothing more elusive than an obvious fact, was correct.

A strong index finger, stained and bleached with chemicals, pressed firmly to Watson's chest right over his racing heart. "If I could do the same for you, love, I'd be a happy man." His voice was a low rumble, like thunder, only more soothing.

The physician collapsed in grief and exhaust just then, arms slackening as he dropped the full weight of his upper body onto his friend. Holmes responded with a small sigh and shifted his own arms slightly so he could lie comfortably, arms tangled in Watson and with his friend beginning to nod off to sleep thanks to his heart's dull beating.

"We're still together, Watson. Thank god, he couldn't break us apart. Now rest, my dear. Can I trust you to be here when I wake up?"

Watson didn't speak, only kissed Holmes' clavicle softly and nuzzled his cheek against his sternum.

"Excellent. Then that's all I need, my Boswell. Rest now. Tomorrow we'll pursue all the narcotics you desire."

"You're not taking morphine to help you sleep, Holmes."

"Ah? Then why did I spy some in your Gladstone bag the other day?"

"It's for my patients," he answered, exasperated. But exasperated was good. It wasn't desolate. "You keep away from my medicines."

"I was merely looking for a vial of oil…"

"_Sherlock_ _Holmes_."

"Indeed, Watson. Now does seem like an excellent time for sleep. Goodnight then!"

_So there you have it, a little dedication to the lovely second movie! As ever, please review (if you can click the "add to favorites" button, you can click the "review" button :P) and let me know what you think/dislike/want to see more of. And requests are welcome :D Thank you for reading; see you next time!_


	30. Chapter 30 Intrusion

_A/N: Heyo! So uber blooper on my part...this chapter was written back like a year ago to fill a request for someone. I can't even remember who requested it now because I completely forgot to post it! ." So OOOPS. Sorry! It was based on the first movie, but actually meshes with the second movie quite nicely as well I think._

_Also, I've been looking over this story from start to finish, re-reading reviews and ideas. It really has reminded me how much you guys all seriously rock! I'm totally dating myself by saying this, but virtual cookies for all! (Kids don't do that no more, eh? What do you have like, gratification apps on your iPhones or something?... haha. I digress again)._

_So thanks for sticking with me through this all, always offering uplifting feedback, and being awesome friends. Long live RDJ Holmes and Hotson! :D_

__Post Hoc, Ergo Propter Hoc  
"After this, therefore because of this"

**Title**: Intrusion  
**Category**: Movieverse  
**Rating**: K+  
**Warnings**: None

Intrusion

To be honest, I often question how in the world I came to be so blessed as to know him. Discoursing with him is invigorating; watching him at work: fascinating. Hearing the swell of his Stradivarius when he's feeling musical is inspiring, and witnessing his explanations as to how he has solved cases makes my heart race.

Kissing him is sublime.

I don't want to sound like an addict, because I certainly am not. But my heart skips when Sherlock Holmes cups my face in his strong, rough, calloused hands, and my legs become weak when I feel his breath ghost over my own lips. I find myself imagining his touch at night, dreaming of his kisses (although I assure the reader that said dreams remain innocent). In short, the simple action of pressing my lips to his drives me wild.

It was Sunday last that I found myself on Baker Street, rather than the considerably less-cluttered Cavendish Place. I had longed to see him, and had finally earned myself a bit of free time.

Our conversation drifted with the lackadaisical and charming effortlessness it always did from the well-being of Gladstone, to recent cases, to more obscure but equally valued topics like the health concerns involving eating fish caught in the Thames.

Alas, somehow our conversation faded away as he crossed the room and leaned close, and my fingers threaded their way through his messy hair quite unconsciously. In a brief moment, our lips touched and I ceased to be on Earth, suddenly adrift in the unconfined bliss of the Heavens.

I sighed contentedly and he hummed in response, leaning close and tilting his head so that our mouths meshed at a new angle, becoming slightly more damp in the process. I shuddered at the feeling of his rough stubble rubbing against my cheek and tea and tobacco married deliciously on the tips of our tongues, our tastes mingling and filling both our hungry mouths. There was increasing urgency in Holmes' actions, as though a simple taste was awakening his real hunger, and he needed to satiate it as soon as possible. My own cheeks began to burn as I mussed his hair beyond its usual style, and allowed his thumb to stroke my neck, pressing against my pulse point.

And suddenly, there was an unexpected _click—_

"John?"

A voice that I regonized all too well. My wife, Mary.

With the speed of a flash of lightening, Holmes and I jumped apart.

"Mary?"

"I…" The poor woman blushed deeply and looked quite flabbergasted with the scene upon which she had unwittingly entered, "I just came to see if you were ready to go…"

"Ah," Holmes brain was already compiling explanations, I could tell by the deep tone (although I wondered if the husky edge to it had other foundations as well…). "I was just disclosing a very confidential piece of information involving a case to your husband." He lied smoothly.

"Informa…tion?" she looked confused, that good, trusting, naive nature of hers immediately beginning to question whether or not she had seen things incorrectly. _A mere misunderstanding?_ Her eyes seemed to be searching.

Again, Holmes leaned close to me and I must admit that for a split second I flinched with dread that he was about to advance upon me again. Instead, he leaned close, then tipped his head to the side a bit, as if to whisper something in my ear. It's a rather desperate save, but I could imagine how it may have looked from Mary's angle: as though our lips were touching. Catching on, I pretended to look shocked by some random tidbit of information.

"My dear Holmes! Surely the case is yours!"

"Oh!" She exclaimed with considerable surprise from across the room. "I misunderstood…erm…but we really should be going, John."

"Yes," I rejoined. "Be well, Holmes."

"Always well, my dear Watson," he responded with a sly look.

Hastening my still-flustered wife downstairs, I cast only one brief glance over my shoulder as a form of proper goodbye. The consulting detective seemed quite at ease, lighting his oily black clay pipe and humming to himself. Mary laughed lightly as I turned to look ahead stonily.

"To think," she giggled, "I thought that you two were _kissing _when I first walked into the room before. How silly of me!"

"Indeed you were being quite silly, Mary; my heart belongs solely to you."

"Ah, John," she sighed.

I can hardly understand how or why, but at that moment, I could swear that there was a shade of disappointment in her bonny blue eyes and vague tone. Certainly she desired not to see me illegally involved with another man! But then, that look…

Ah, how curious and capricious are women!

_Hope you liked! Ah, Watson doesn't understand: Shwatsonlock is better than _50 Shades of Gray_! *gets shot* review?... not after that last comment...? OK..._

_More soon, kiddos! :)_


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